i've been the archer, i've been the prey
by stolethekey
Summary: He hears nothing but one thought, screaming at him above the din of his own panic – the girl in the photograph was the woman he knows as Natasha Romanoff. And he's trapped in the Red Room. - some red room drama, some stevenat angst, and some good old-fashioned knifing. aka my take on the post-civil war/pre-infinity war saga
1. easy they come, easy they go

**easy they come, easy they go**

**notes:**  
is it smart to start writing a multichap after all source material for your new pairing has been published and the fandom is surely gradually diminishing in size? no.

does the world need another post-civil war/pre-infinity war fic? also no.

is publishing this at 1:15 ET ideal for viewership? you guessed it – no.

and yet here i am

It is interesting, how things can come together and fall apart at the same time.

The weather in Wakanda is perfect, as always, and as Steve walks up a grassy hill he can't help but marvel at the sheer beauty of the scene around him. He comes to a stop at the top, tucking his hands into his pockets.

A long, heavy sigh escapes him as he gazes out across the city. The fields and buildings are teeming with life below him, and he takes a moment to revel in the first moment of quiet and solitude he's had in days.

Here, on top of the world, it is peaceful – but it is a peace that is tinged with a faint sadness, and perhaps a little bit of loneliness.

Footsteps rustle quietly behind him, and he turns with a slight smile to greet the man currently climbing up to meet him.

"Thanks for not sneaking up on me."

T'Challa comes to a stop beside him, a sympathetic expression on his face. "I wanted to see how you were doing."

Steve sighs again, his gaze returning to the city in front of him. "I'm doing okay, all things considered. It's just tough – everything fell apart so quickly, and to have to say goodbye to Bucky so soon after I'd gotten him back – "

"It's for the best," T'Challa says softly.

"I know," Steve says quickly. "I know, and I'm really very happy about the fact that you might be able to undo everything, but I just – I lost everything so quickly. And I don't want to sound selfish – "

"I would tell you if you did."

" – but for a while I thought that it might be okay if the team broke up, if I lost all my friends, because I'd have Bucky, and now – "

"You don't have him either."

"Yeah."

T'Challa inclines his head slightly, his eyes thoughtful. "Do you regret what you did?"

"No. I mean, I can't. Not when the alternative was – well, you saw." Steve lets out a huff. "But maybe some things along the way. I don't know what happened to the friends who fought alongside me at the airport. I don't know what the government is going to do to them. And whatever punishment gets inflicted on them – that's on me."

He sighs. "And, well, I had some friends on the opposing side, too – and I don't know if those relationships will ever recover. If they _can_ ever recover."

T'Challa stays quiet.

"I don't want to sound ungrateful," Steve adds, trying and failing to read the king's expression. "Because I truly am. What you're doing for Bucky – if there is anything I can do in return, please ask."

"It is nothing," T'Challa says, waving a hand. "But do me one favor. When you see Miss Romanoff – please tell her that I understand her choice. I do not blame her. And I hope that someday, we may work together toward a real common goal."

Steve lets out a derisive snort, trying to ignore the fresh pain that washes over him at the sound of her name. "I doubt I'll ever see her again. I don't even know where she is. But if I ever run into her, I'll relay the message."

T'Challa turns to him, his gaze piercing. "I was under the impression that the two of you were close."

"We were," Steve says bitterly. "Emphasis on _were_."

T'Challa hums skeptically. "She trusted you enough to allow you to go. Enough to believe you were telling the truth. I may not know much about her, but I do know that to a woman with her background – trust does not come easily."

"Yeah," Steve says shortly. "Sure. If I see her, I'll tell her. Anything else?"

"Well, since you are offering," T'Challa says with the ghost of a smile, "My sources tell me there have been a few disturbances in Russia." 

Trauma is a funny thing.

It rears its head at the most inopportune times, rendering even the strongest people weak and incapable. It is almost never cured, only managed – and when it is unpredictable, management is difficult. The moments it comes screaming out of nowhere are the most dangerous.

This, Natasha thinks, is not one of those moments.

In retrospect, maybe coming back to the source of all of her nightmares was _not_ the best thing to do, but she'd gotten a tip and if what she'd heard was true – well, any amount of pain was worth saving people from the things she'd gone through.

As she picks through the remnants of the Red Room, however, she feels like she may have overestimated herself.

The ghosts of her past haunt her every step, even though the building has clearly been abandoned for years. The voices of her friends fill her ears as she walks through a room full of discarded bed frames, pausing only briefly at the foot of the one that she once slept in. Her nerves shriek at her as she prowls through the library, begging at her to touch the books she used to steal off the shelves in the middle of the night. She can still hear screams of fear and pain as she tosses a cursory glance into the interrogation room, knowing from experience that there is no place to hide that is invisible from the window.

She can feel herself shrinking deeper and deeper into her body, and by the time she gets to the records room she feels strangely as if she is watching herself comb through the files.

For example, she is vaguely aware that she is pulling the folders out one by one and perusing their contents. Her mind is filing away the information, she knows that much; but everything is from at least ten years ago – in other words, whatever she is looking for is not here.

She pulls the last folder out, and the pictures that slip into her hands send her jolting back to reality.

Her fingers slide almost feverishly against the crackling, aged photographs as her eyes land on the folder tab: _Romanova, Natalia Alianova._

Well.

Dread bubbles in the pit of her stomach as she looks through the pictures, and despite every piece of her screaming at her to drop them and get out she continues to flip through them, one-by-one.

She's seen these photos before: they were taken of all the girls, snapshots of their training. They were used to improve form, to point out mistakes in posture and footwork – and now, as the images roar back into life in her mind, they are a permanent remembrance of the past.

Her eyes have just landed on a photo of her with her hand wrapped around a crowbar when she hears a distant bang. Something starts to prickle at the back of her neck.

She may be a little out of it, but she has known that feeling since she first walked these hallowed halls –

She is not alone.

Nakia drops Steve off in an empty field with food, water, and a Toyota Camry that is registered in her name.

"Good luck," she says, handing him a backpack that somehow feels lighter than the sum of its contents. "Sorry I can't help you – I'm on another mission in Nigeria."

"It's okay," Steve says honestly. "I'm used to working alone."

She gives him a knowing look as she tosses him the car key. "Don't stay here too long, understand? See if the tip was real, and if it was, get those girls and get out. People are looking for you, and if you take too long, they'll start to catch on."

"Yeah. Thanks again – for everything."

Nakia smiles. "Of course. And provided you find a way to get to Wakanda, you are welcome back anytime – if you want to visit Barnes, if you need a shower, anything."

"Thank you," Steve says, feeling suddenly undeserving of the kindness he has been shown the past few days. "Really."

She lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, and with a few goodbyes, takes off.

Steve feels a strange relief as he starts driving, the wheels churning easily over the dead grass. It's been a while since he's had some time to himself, and the monotonous hum of the engine fills his brain is a welcome distraction from his thoughts. He finally has a mission, again – and with it, a purpose.

He pulls the car over around a mile from his target and gets out, leaving the backpack in the trunk and tucking the key into his suit. As he approaches the building, he wonders distantly if someone set T'Challa up – it looks completely empty, like it hasn't been used in years. The door handles are spectacularly rusted, and a little shove tells him the doors aren't locked.

"Well," he mutters, pushing through them, "Guess I'd better make sure."

The sight that greets him is something straight out of a horror movie – the lights are on, but they look like they're hanging onto their last breaths, and a disgusting grime has started to creep into the corners. He steps forward almost gingerly, wincing as the door slams shut behind him, and starts to proceed through the building, stopping to inspect every room for signs of life. There aren't any: a layer of dust covers everything, and whoever once used this building clearly hasn't been back in months, at least.

The building was previously some sort of training facility, he decides, as he steps out of what he assumes is a former dormitory. There are interrogation rooms, office spaces, and what looks like a weapons storage unit. It is eerily similar to the old Avengers facility, if less high-tech – though he supposes anything used for that purpose will look largely the same.

Abandoned as it may be, something about the building still makes his skin crawl, and as he makes his way through the rooms Steve becomes more and more uneasy. The door of the last room is open, and as he steps into a room full of files he is only slightly disappointed that T'Challa's tip was apparently unfounded.

He makes his way around the boxes, glancing in the corners as he does. When he gets to the last corner and finds it empty, he lets out a breath that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. He picks his way gingerly around the last table, looks back one last time, and realizes –

He'd missed something. Namely, a file folder that looks like it was hastily closed, lying on top of its companions.

He stops breathing as he approaches it from the side, eyeing it as if it may explode at any time. He reaches for it carefully, peeling the front back without picking the folder up. It's full of a stack of documents and a pile of photographs, and as he takes a step forward to look at the top picture his heart leaps into his throat.

There is a little red-headed girl whose expression looks oddly familiar, a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. Ordinarily, this would be disturbing enough, but as Steve takes in the hand that apparently accidentally entered the frame, he feels his entire soul drop out of his body.

Because the hand is metal, and from what he can see, the arm it's connected to is metal, too.

Steve flips frantically to the next photo, praying that the suspicion he has isn't true, but what he sees next is even worse – the girl with the red hair is older, staring into the camera with a defiant look on her face, and there is no mistaking her now. Not when he's seen that expression in person too many times to count.

He steps back abruptly as if he's been shot at, his heart pounding. Steve hurtles out of the room and sprints towards the doors, throwing his body at them in a desperate attempt to escape. They don't open.

In the time between his entrance and now, someone, somehow, has locked the doors.

His body jolts backwards as he stumbles, staring in frantic disbelief at the unyielding doors in front of him. There is no lock to be seen, no easy contraption to undo. He tears himself away and sprints back down the hallway. A roar starts building in his ears, growing louder and louder until he hears nothing but one thought, screaming at him above the din of his own panic –

The girl in the photograph was the woman he knows as Natasha Romanoff. And he's trapped in the Red Room.


	2. i've got a hundred thrown-out speeches

**I've got a hundred thrown-out speeches I almost said to you**

**Notes:**

The response to the first chapter made me so happy? Y'all are so nice? I can't handle it

The walls seem to be laughing at him.

Steve tears through the hallways at a breakneck speed, throwing panicked glances into every room. In the back of his mind, a vague calculation is taking place: is he in more danger out here, or hiding inside an enclosed space?

As if it makes its own decision, his body takes him down a staircase and through the door of what looks like it may have once been a lounge. The room is mostly empty, save for a few cots and chairs against the left wall that he approaches slowly.

Steve runs a hand over the worn cloth of a cot, trying to control his breath and come up with a plan. The smart thing to do, he thinks, is to find a way to escape. If he could just get out of this building, he could find a way to Wakanda – he'd tell T'Challa what happened, come back with reinforcements, and go from there.

That would be the smart thing to do, he knows – but he also knows, as soon as his hand leaves the cot, that it is never going to happen.

He rationalizes it to himself: there are too many unknown variables, for one – who locked the door? Would they still be here when he gets back? – and going all the way back to Africa just to say "I was in a building when the door suddenly locked and I freaked out" seems objectively embarrassing.

He _can't_ go back – not like this.

Steve Rogers is not someone who doesn't finish missions.

Breathing deeply, Steve steps back into the hallway. Having a goal, a target, clears his mind considerably, and as he proceeds back into the heart of the facility his mind clicks back into a comfortable, familiar mindset.

He is the hunter, now – no matter that he is also being hunted. He slips through doorways with practiced movements, peering into corners and keeping a full awareness of his surroundings. Steve proceeds through the building silently and fluidly, and though adrenaline is coursing through his veins he starts to feel almost comfortable.

The file room is what makes him falter.

Allowing himself to stare into it for a second too long is his first mistake. His second is lowering his guard, just for a moment, to wonder about the file he'd left open in the middle of the room and the other contents it may contain.

Anyone in his line of work knows: one mistake is dangerous. Two mistakes can kill you.

Something metal slams into his chest, sending him reeling backward and falling through the door behind him. He lands hard on the floor, looking up to see a chair flying toward his head. It crashes into the floor as he rolls at the last minute, the chair clattering out of his assailant's hands.

Steve scrambles to his feet, and he barely has time to notice that his attacker is a woman who looks much too old to be smacking people with chairs before she's upon him. She is faster than almost anyone he's ever fought, and it takes all of his ability to keep her at bay. She moves with a fluidity that is both terrifying and impressive, and he tries to rack his brain for a strategy as he slowly backs farther into the room, parrying her strikes as well as he can.

He almost has one when she jumps, locking his neck between her thighs, and shock that jolts through his body makes him an easy target to bring down. He barely sees the sneer on her face as she pins him to the ground – his mind is racing, but no longer with battle strategy.

He's seen that move before.

A solid whack to the side of his face wakes him up, and he starts thrashing, trying to throw the woman off. She laughs, a maniacal, chilling sound, and presses her leg more firmly into his hip.

"Oh, Captain Rogers," she sneers, tracing his face mockingly with a curiously shriveled finger. "Here for your little girlfriend, I assume? How quickly the mighty have fallen."

He barely has time to wonder what she means before a now-familiar chair slices through the air above him, slamming into the woman with such force that she crashes into the wall beside them.

Steve blinks as Natasha appears over him, a cold fury radiating from her body. She does not look at him.

"Ah, Natalia," the woman says frostily, picking herself off the wall and smiling maliciously. "How lovely to see you again."

Steve scrambles away from the center of the floor as Natasha stalks past him as if he is not there, her eyes never leaving her target.

"Headmistress. You've aged poorly," Natasha says coldly, and something about her tone sends a thrill down Steve's spine. "Where are the others?"

The woman sneers. "There are no others."

Natasha doesn't flinch. "I've had five different informants with information about a Red Room revival."

"Ah, yes," the Headmistress snickers. "I have a wide net of connections, I wanted a word with my star pupil. Students, you know, they leave and then forget all about you. Perhaps you have become too gullible, little one, in your attempts to become a hero."

Natasha stays silent, and the Headmistress smirks. "Rest assured – you made sure we could never rebuild when you sent your American friends to destroy us. You are ungrateful, Natalia, for the things you learned here. Without us, you would never have been half the woman you are now. And I trust you remember how we punish ingratitude."

"Fine, then," Natasha says, her voice completely emotionless. "Shall we dance?"

Both women move at once, and before Steve can wrap his head around the situation the Headmistress has Natasha pinned to the wall, a knife that seemingly appeared out of thin air pressed against her throat.

"You foolish little spider," she hisses, pressing the blade against Natasha's skin. "You think you could ever beat me? I _made_ you."

"You did – make me," Natasha gasps. She moves more quickly than Steve would've thought possible, and as he backs slowly against the wall he sees the Headmistress stagger backwards and the knife fall. "But you will _not_ kill me."

The Headmistress snarls, and Steve watches from the corner of the room as the two women hit the ground. Some part of him wants to jump in and help, but as soon as the thought crosses his mind he knows that he cannot. Part of it is that this is her fight, and not his—but there is also a part of him that is terrified of the emptiness in Natasha's eyes. The Nat he knows is nowhere to be found—this is a Natasha that he has never seen, a Natasha that he has only heard of in legends and whispers.

If he jumped in to help—would she even recognize him? He genuinely doesn't know.

So he watches, as they tear at each other and hiss intelligible insults in each other's ears. He watches, as Natasha slams her former teacher against the wall and the older woman crumples onto the floor. He stares as Natasha takes the opportunity to snatch the knife off the floor, as she kneels over the Headmistress and positions the blade inches from her heart.

_Do it,_ he wants to yell. _Now._

"Ah, _malen'kiy,_" the Headmistress croaks, turning her head so that she can look at Natasha's face. "You have not lost touch. I chose well, it seems."

Natasha presses the knife against the Headmistress's chest. Then, in the same flat, cold voice: "It appears not, Headmistress. Any regrets you'd like to share with your favorite student?"

"Only that you have allowed the world to fool you," she whispers, letting her hands fall to her sides. "That you have allowed it to convince you that you may someday belong."

The knife presses deeper into her skin, and the Headmistress lets out a hiss of pain. "Kill me if you want, little one. It will not change the fact that nothing you touch will ever last. That silly little team of yours, gone as soon as one little thing challenged it, no?"

The blade stays frozen. So does its handler.

"I told you before, Natalia—run all you want. Run, throughout the entire world. You know you have no place in it."

Natasha says nothing, but she doesn't move, either.

"You belong to us," the Headmistress hisses, and Steve notices too late that her hand is moving slowly toward her thigh. "It is here that you were made—and it is here that you will die."

There is a flash of metal as the she pulls a hidden knife from her suit, Steve yells and shuts his eyes, and then the movement suddenly stops completely.

It is a silent for a long time before he dares to open his eyes. The scene in front of him starts to come slowly into focus, and he feels a jolt of relief as he realizes—the blood pooling on the floor is not Natasha's.

Her foot is still on the Headmistress's wrist, the knife on the ground from where it had clattered out of the Headmistress's hand, and the second blade is buried hilt-deep in the Headmistress's chest.

Neither woman is moving.

Steve waits. Nobody moves, the scene in front of him as still and unmoving as a terrible portrait. When the silence becomes unbearable, he takes a cautious step forward and speaks slowly, his voice hoarse. "Nat—Natasha?"

She looks up, then, acknowledging his presence for the first time since she has stepped into this room, and he sees a single tear rolling down her cheek.

There is an emptiness in her gaze that makes his gut twitch uncomfortably, and as she looks at him her eyes are completely devoid of recognition.

"Do you—do you know who I am?"

The Natasha from a few weeks would've rolled her eyes and told him not to ask stupid questions. This Natasha stares at him for a few seconds, her hollow gaze tunneling into his soul, and then gives a single, silent nod.

He's about to say something else when she stands, wiping her hands unceremoniously on her own suit.

"Did you drive?"

"Y-Yeah," he says, much too quickly. "Car's a mile away."

"Drive it here," she says tonelessly. "I'm going to go clean up."

She's gone before he even processes her words.

Steve waits by the car for an hour.

He starts and finishes one of his packed meals. The sun has started to set, and he decides that if it gets dark and she still hasn't shown up, he'll go back in and look for her.

He's just taken his first step towards the building when she emerges, a shadowy figure silhouetted against the now-empty building. She walks toward him, her footsteps noiseless against the ground, and as she gets closer he can make out her suit draped over her shoulder. Something flickers briefly in her eyes when she looks up to see him standing by the car, but it is replaced quickly by the dullness of before.

"Thanks for waiting."

"Of course."

They both slide into their seats, and as Steve turns the key in the ignition he notices that she is in a completely new outfit: jeans, a T-shirt, and a flannel, all completely clean. Her hair appears slightly damp, and she tucks it over her shoulder before fastening her seatbelt.

She doesn't offer an explanation, and he doesn't ask. He hands her another one of his meals and she gives him a wordless nod of thanks before inhaling it, placing the container neatly back into his backpack when she's done.

They drive in silence for a while, Steve hazarding occasional glances at Natasha as he takes the Camry through a myriad of winding roads. She stares unblinkingly out the window the entire time, and as Steve drives deeper into the country he starts to feel slightly uncomfortable.

"Um," he ventures, wincing at the way his voice breaks the fragile silence, "I actually don't know where I'm going."

She stirs at that, turning to look at him. There is no laughter in the lines of her face. "There's a hotel a few miles from here. They take cash and don't ask questions."

"Great."

She directs him with the same emotionless voice, providing the same monotony as a GPS would, if the GPS also made his mind race with worry. They check into the hotel and pay with little issue, and if it weren't for her increasingly concerning silence, he would almost feel as if they had settled back into an old routine.

There are shadows of it as they enter the room and drop their bags on their respective sides of the bed in a synchronized movement. Natasha steps into the restroom with a toothbrush in hand, and Steve takes the moment to compose himself and settle into a chair.

He clears his throat when she reemerges, clad in pajama shorts and a loose T-shirt. "So," he says, slightly uncomfortably. "You got a tip, too."

"Yeah," she says hollowly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "I heard rumors of the Room starting up again, but it looks like they were false."

"I did too."

She shakes her head. "I walked right into that trap. Like a fool."

"I did too."

She looks up at him, and her voice is dull when she speaks. "They were informants I had vetted and trusted, though. That's the thing."

"T'Challa thought they were credible too. Enough to send me here."

Surprise flickers briefly through her eyes at the king's name, and he latches desperately onto that show of emotion.

"He, uh, also asked me to tell you that he doesn't blame you for – for letting us go. And that he would love to work together for real someday."

"Funny how that happens, isn't it?"

"I'm just saying," he says hastily. "There's a future to that relationship, should you want it."

She gives a short, humorless laugh. "Well, that makes one of them."

He doesn't entirely know what to say to that, so he sighs and rises heavily from his chair.

"Well," he says uncomfortably, "I'm gonna shower."

Natasha shrugs, turning to crawl across the bed and slip under the covers. "Fine by me."

Her eyes are closed by the time he returns, and even though he has a slinking suspicion that she is only pretending to sleep, he tries his best to keep his movements quiet. He can feel her muscles tense as he slips into the bed next to her, and his heart clenches slightly when she doesn't say anything.

He slips slowly into a restless sleep, the gradual unconsciousness dulling the cocktail of emotions that are swirling within him. There is concern, for his former partner and friend; exhaustion, from the day's events but also from those of days past; but mostly there is dread – of the morning, of the days to come, of what comes next.


	3. i search for your dark side

**I search for your dark side, but what if I'm alright right here?**

**Notes:**

parts of the nat + ross scene are based on the infinity war hero's journey book. figured that if I'm going to write that scene in here I should use what's technically canon.

as always, you can find me on tumblr stolethekey

For Steve, the next week passes in excruciating monotony.

All things considered, things aren't terrible – no one is attacking them, for once, and he isn't living in constant fear – but things aren't exactly _normal,_ either.

Natasha still isn't talking to him, for one. Sure, she asks him what he wants for dinner and lets him know when she's coming back if she leaves the room, but she isn't _talking _to them. They haven't had anything beyond a stilted conversation since the Red Room. If he counts the disasters in Vienna and Germany before then, it's been weeks.

His emotions have wavered among hurt, anger, confusion, and a blanket determination to get her to talk, and since he can't exactly do much beyond walk around the immediate vicinity of the hotel, he has not come up with a good way to process them.

He's getting restless, too – being cooped up in a hotel room with no goal nor end in sight is not his idea of paradise.

On the eighth day, he clears his throat as Natasha comes through the door with a plastic bag containing their lunch.

"I've been thinking," he says cautiously, ignoring the way she doesn't look up at him and continues untying the bag. "I want to help the rest of them. Sam, Clint, Wanda, and Scott."

She hums. "Yes, I think you should."

"I need to find out what they did to them."

She looks up at him then. "Oh, I can tell you."

"Oh, so you knew?" Annoyance flares in his stomach as she shrugs. "And you didn't think it was important enough to tell me?

Natasha eyes him carefully, popping open a takeout container before answering. "I wanted to see if you'd ask."

"Okay," he says somewhat uncomfortably, trying to discern her tone. "Well, I'm asking."

"There's a place called the Raft," she mutters, unceremoniously stabbing a fork into her rice. "It's basically a supermax for enhanced people. Solitary confinement, no visitors, the whole nine yards. No government will admit that it exists. Almost nobody knows where it is."

"But you do."

She pops a piece of bread into her mouth.

"Will you help me? Help them?"

"That's what I do," she says, her voice low and hard. "I help my friends."

She comes somewhat more alive as they begin to plan. It's not like old times, not exactly, but there is some more familiarity in their movements, in the way they feed off each other's ideas. It's not until they get to transportation that frustration starts to creep back in.

"How are we getting there? I have a fake passport, but if it's in the middle of the ocean – "

"Oh, that's not necessary," she says casually. "I have a quinjet."

"You have a _what – _"

"It's just a little far from here, so I'll have to take your car to grab it – "

"You had a quinjet this entire time and I've been sitting in this hotel room like a _fool_, thinking that I was stuck in Russia – "

"Well I'm sorry it hasn't been quite up to your standards," Natasha says, her eyes flashing. "In case you haven't noticed, I've been here, _sitting in this hotel room, _too. But I'll be sure to consider your locational preferences next time I save you from being walloped to death with a chair."

It's the first time she's referenced what happened in the Red Room, and there has to be something beneath the anger in her voice, but this is also the first time she's shown any willingness to cooperate, so he decides to leave any much-needed conversations for later.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "The quinjet would be great, thank you."

Natasha gives him a short nod, he shoves down a question about what's bothering her, and they keep planning.

As she sketches him a map of the Raft on the back of a napkin, he wonders if their old partnership is gone forever.

D.C. is unreasonably hot for the season, as Everett Ross keeps reminding her.

"Sorry about the heat," he says, wiping his forehead for the fifth time in five minutes. "The air conditioning keeps breaking. We've asked for repairs, but – well, the American bureaucracy isn't exactly known for speed and efficiency."

Natasha smiles primly, folding her hands on the table in front of her. "No, I suppose not. Although you'd think the Joint Terrorism Task Force would be a priority."

"Right? I guess the higher-ups are currently a little peeved at us."

"Peeved at me, you mean."

Ross eyes her across the interrogation room table. "Among other people."

She smirks, sneaking a glance at his watch. "In any case, the heat doesn't bother me. I've been through much worse, and without a glass of water like the one you have so kindly provided me."

He nods and looks expectantly at her. She stays silent, returning his gaze with a carefully innocent look.

_God_, it feels good to do this again.

Ross sighs. "Okay, I'll start. Would you like to explain how two of the most wanted men in the world escaped from under your grasp?"

Natasha shrugs. "They're stronger than me."

"Physically, perhaps. But we both know that if you really wanted to, you could have stopped them."

"Yeaah," she drawls, drawing out the word for as long as possible. "Guess I didn't really want to."

"You had orders."

"And I followed them," she retorts. "I stopped them from reaching the hangar."

"Yes, you did. And then you promptly allowed them to enter it, board a quinjet, and fly to God knows where –"

"Oh, yeah. I let them go. Is that what you were after?"

Everett Ross lets out a long, heavy sigh, and buries his head in his hands. Natasha almost feels sorry for him.

"We have very different definitions of 'stop', Miss Romanoff."

The corner of her mouth twists up as she glances at his watch again to see that fifteen minutes have passed.

"I suppose we do."

"Are you going to tell me why?"

She shrugs. "It was the right thing to do."

Ross releases a long, low groan into his hands, then emerges. "I'm morally obligated to let you know – we did manage to arrest the rest of them. Barton, Lang, Maximoff, and Wilson."

"Oh," she says lightly. "Can I see them?"

"They're not here."

She merely looks at him. He sighs again. "I can't tell you where they are."

"Oh, that's okay," she says innocently. "I know where they are."

His eyes widen infinitesimally. "With all due respect, Agent Romanoff, that is impossible."

Natasha raises an eyebrow, giving him a slightly cocky smile. "The Raft, no?"

"The Raft," Ross says, in the tone of someone reading off a teleprompter, "does not exist. And even if it _did_, I wouldn't know anything about it. That's not my jurisdiction."

"No," Natasha says evenly. "That would be under the other Ross's purview."

He smiles thinly. "Precisely. Now, let's talk about things that actually fall under my job description, shall we?"

"Floor's yours."

"Where do you think Steve Rogers is?"

"Sorry," Natasha says nonchalantly. "Couldn't tell you. He ran off without me, you see."

"Yes, I remember," Ross says with an air of impatience. "Fine. Tell me what you know about him, then."

"Well, he was born in 1918 in the Lower East Side – "

"I've read the file, seen the museum displays. I want to know why he risked everything to help his friend. Why that was worth putting his other friends in prison."

"Yes, well, I've wondered that too," Natasha replies, allowing an ounce of bitterness to seep into her voice. "But James Barnes means more to him than you or I could ever understand. He is Rogers's oldest and best friend, his only tie to the past – and, well, he was being framed for a heinous crime, so – "

"Loyalty does funny things to people," Ross says, a gleam of understanding flashing through his eyes.

"Well, yes."

"I assume that's why you're here."

She smiles serenely. "I'm here because you threatened to have me arrested if I didn't show up."

He gives a short laugh. "And yet you showed no surprise when I brought you to a windowless, soundproof interrogation room with no guards and no handcuffs."

She shrugs. "I wasn't going to complain."

Ross gives an almost fond shake of his head. "We both know you could take all of the guards currently in this building, catapult out of the window, and leave us all in the dust without breaking a sweat. You're here because you want to be here. I would guess that you're serving as a distraction for something else. Someone else. Pull me away from my desk so that I don't get real-time updates, I can't manage things as they come up."

Natasha grins, unperturbed. "They were right – you _are_ good."

"You seem oddly calm about the fact that I just figured you out."

"Oh, I don't care," she says, not bothering to hide the fact that she's looking at his watch. "All that matters is that you don't leave. And now that it's just the two of us, you wouldn't be able to."

Ross snorts. "So who is it?"

"I think you already know."

"But who – " His eyes widen. "Steve Rogers. You're working with Steve Rogers? Is he at the Raft?"

"I thought the Raft didn't exist."

Ross rolls his eyes. "We both know it exists, and we both know that I have to say it doesn't exist. So, yes, then? How did he get in? As impressive as he is, there's no way he could have figured out – ."

Natasha merely smiles and takes a sip of her water.

Ross stares at her as the realization enters his eyes. "You."

Her smile widens. "Me."

"Who would've guessed?" Ross says, wiping his forehead again. "The Black Widow, teaching Captain America himself new tricks?"

"Yeah, well, I've learned from him, too."

"Yes," Ross says softly, leaning back in his chair. "I suppose you have."

Natasha straightens up as the watch around his wrist hits 5:30. "I would never tell you if he was at the Raft, but even if he _was_, at some time today, he would no longer be there."

"No, and I would assume that certain captives would also no longer be there." Ross pauses as his phone lights up beside him. "Ah, look at that. It appears a certain underwater prison is experiencing technical difficulties."

"Is that the government term?"

"For 'a supersoldier just broke into the structure specifically designed to keep supersoldiers out and rescued a bunch of his friends'? Yes, I believe it is."

Natasha laughs. The phone lights up with an incoming call – _Thaddeus Ross – _and Everett Ross ignores it.

"You know what's wild?" he says, wringing his hands. "I can hardly bring myself to care. I mean, I do care, because the boss is going to have my head for this, but I don't really. Because you're here."

She blinks. "What do you mean?"

He hesitates. "Steve Rogers is the paragon of a good man, but he – he can sometimes get ideas. He can do things that hurt people in his attempt to save others. But you – I trust you to do the right thing. I don't know why, and most people would probably call me delusional, but I do. Your brand of moral righteousness is backed by a cold rationality and realism. And I think that's what we need."

Natasha purses her lips. "You'd be the only one to believe that."

Ross smiles. "Oh, I don't think that's true."

The phone lights up again. Ross doesn't even look at it. "I should let you know – we partially expected this to happen. I mean, most hoped it wouldn't, but when you're working against Captain America himself…well, you have to make preparations."

He meets her eyes, and when he speaks his voice is grave. "Between you and me – if your friends offer to turn themselves in, the government will propose a deal. Two years of house arrest and nothing else, in return for voluntary compliance. In my opinion, this is incredibly lenient, all things considered."

"You want them under your surveillance," Natasha says flatly.

"For two years," Ross retorts. "And then it's back to normal. They can live their normal lives. What's the alternative? A lifetime on the run? That may be suitable for you, but it's not for most. Even superheroes."

Natasha stays silent.

Someone starts pounding on the interrogation room door, and Ross sighs and reaches for his phone. "Well, I should get going and return these fifty missed calls before the Secretary of State sends the Army to collect me. I assume you have a way of getting out of a windowless, locked room?"

"Wouldn't be the hardest thing I've done."

He stands, wiping his hands on his slacks before reaching one out. "Good luck, Agent Romanoff."

She shakes it. "You too."

Natasha steps behind the door as Ross cracks it open. "What? I told you not to bother me unless the Secretary of State himself was calling."

"Um, sir," a nervous voice says, "He is. Secretary Ross has been trying to reach you for the past five minutes."

"Huh. I didn't get anything. Must not be signal in the room." Ross slips out and shuts the door with a soft _click_, and a vague smile floats onto Natasha Romanoff's face.

She has time to stop by a deli before heading to the rendezvous point, and as she slips into the alleyway with a large paper bag in her hands she feels lighter than she has in weeks.

The sight of her oldest friend only makes her happier.

Clint lets out a delighted yelp as she rounds the corner, and as he crashes into her she laughs out loud.

"Well hello, Barton. How've you been?"

"Just peachy," he answers, stepping back and grinning widely. "Is that food for us? I haven't eaten a good meal in so long."

"Right, on account of being in prison."

"Sure."

Natasha tosses sandwiches to the rest of the group, which accepts them with varying degrees of gratitude and embarrassment. "So, next steps. Ross said that if you hint at turning yourselves in, they'll drop charges completely in return for two years of house arrest, but if you don't want to do that, you're welcome to come with us. It'll be rougher than before, obviously, but we'll still be able to fight the good fight, and – "

"Actually," Scott interrupts timidly, his hands working nervously at his sandwich. "I think I may take that deal, Miss – er, Black Widow."

"Call me Nat," she says with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Okay, um – well, I have a daughter, you see, and I've been working really hard at being a good dad, and I shouldn't have been in Germany anyway, and I just feel like I need to be with her – "

"Say no more. It's your decision, and I respect that."

He shoots her a relieved smile.

"Wait," Steve says roughly. "How do you know this is real? That it's not a trap?"

Natasha rolls her eyes. "You don't have to actually turn yourself in to get the offer. You just have to _hint_ at it. Then, once the formal offer comes, you do it officially. Besides, I trust him."

"You trust him." The skepticism in his voice is heard by everyone.

"Yes." And maybe it's unfair, but she meets his eyes and pours it on when she answers. "Like I trust you."

The silence that follows is both heavy and slightly uncomfortable.

"Well, I have no house to go back to," Wanda says blandly, and Steve visibly flinches. "So I guess that's not an option for me."

Natasha feels a pang of sympathy for the redhead in front of her. "You're welcome to join us. It'll be fun – "

"Thank you," she says quietly. "But I've been thinking, and I – I want to do some exploring on my own. I've never – I didn't really get a chance to grow up, see the things I would have as a kid. And I think I'd like to. By myself. It's nothing personal, I just – "

"I get it," Natasha says softly, remembering her own lone expedition to Russia. "I really do. Just – you still remember the number for my burner, right? If you ever need anything – help, food, a place to crash, anything – call me, okay?"

"Yeah," Wanda murmurs. "Thanks."

Sam clears his throat from beside Steve and steps forward. "I'll come with you and Cap."

Natasha looks up, unsure if she should be surprised. "Are you sure? You have a life here too, Sam, you have the VA – "

"They'll manage without me," he says, though there is a bit of uncertainty beneath his voice. "I want to come with you. I don't want you saving the world without me."

She looks at Steve, who gives her a brief nod. "Well," she says with a tight smile, "if you're sure."

Sam nods, and Natasha turns to Clint. "And you?"

He gives her a sad smile, and her heart sinks. "I think I'm gonna take the deal, 'Tash."

"Oh."

"I wish I could come with you, I just – the kids, and Laura – "

"No, of course," she says, far too quickly. "They need you, it wouldn't be right to leave them."

"Yeah," he says softly. "And I need them."

She wants to say, _What's that like?, _but instead she tamps down the bitterness rising in her gut and forces a smile. "I get it. Really."

"At least we get a proper goodbye."

And they do, but it is far too short – she stays in his arms for what feels like all of two seconds, and before she knows it her hand is leaving his and he's nothing but a small figure beneath her, growing smaller with every passing second.

She stares until she can't make him out anymore, then switches focus to the dials in front of her. The quinjet is silent, and as they fly into an empty expanse of sky, she can't help wondering if the best part of her life is over.

Natasha flies the plane in complete silence while Steve and Sam sit in the back. Neither of the men know where they're going, but it seems like a long journey, so Steve takes the opportunity to bring Sam up to speed on everything post-Germany.

Sam lets out a low whistle when the story is over. "Jesus."

"Yeah," Steve says heavily. "It's been a lot."

"Are you ever going to reach back out to Tony? Try to make amends?"

"I don't know, man, what we did to each other was pretty irreversible."

Sam hums and glances at the cockpit. "And you found Nat – in the Red Room?"

"Well, she found me, but yeah."

"Is that why she's been so weird?"

"I don't know," Steve says, his voice frustrated. "She won't talk to me. We haven't had a real conversation since Germany, and I'm scared that if I say the wrong thing she'll leave."

Sam snorts. "I don't think she'll leave, man. If only because she thinks – probably correctly – that we need her, and that leaving us would essentially be killing us."

Steve sighs, and Sam lays a hand on his shoulder. "Just go up there and talk to her. She seemed a little rejuvenated when she saw Barton. Maybe she'll open up."

"I don't even know what to say to her."

"Why not ask her where we're going? I, for one, would love to know."

Natasha is halfway through a banana when Steve slides into the co-pilot seat as nonchalantly as possible. She acknowledges his presence with a nod of greeting, which he supposes is improvement.

"Where are we going?"

"Well," she answers through a mouthful of banana, "It's hard for three people to travel undercover; it's impossible to pose as a traveling couple, so booking hotel rooms is risky."

"Right. So – "

"I have a safe house," she continues. "In Russia. It's safer, and we'll be more comfortable, anyway. Plus it'll be good to have a headquarters now that we're doing this for real."

Steve is, for what feels like the millionth time in the past week, struck by the feeling that he doesn't know her at all. "I didn't know you had a safe house."

She glances briefly over at him. "Almost no one does. I don't like sharing it with people, and I tend to exhaust all other alternatives first, but – I don't think we have any other options."

"Right," he says uncomfortably. "Well, thanks for trusting us enough to bring us there." She shrugs, and he hesitates. "When did you build it?"

She laughs, and it's not quite her old laugh but it's closer. "I didn't. Nick had it built when he built Clint his house."

"Why?"

"For situations like this."

"But why is it in Russia?"

She shrugs. "I didn't want to put it too close to New York or DC, and this is the place I'm most familiar with, I guess. It's just easier to navigate my surroundings here."

A sinking feeling starts to make its way into Steve's gut. "You mean you still consider this home."

"I don't have a home," she scoffs. "A home is a distraction."

And this is perfectly reasonable, Steve knows. It makes perfect sense that someone like her, who spent decades traversing continents and cities indiscriminately, does not develop emotional attachment to places. It makes perfect sense that someone for whom staying in one place could cause danger shuns the idea of permanence.

She lived a life while he was in the ice – perhaps, Steve thinks, it would be arrogant to think that he had made a significant impact on her, that he is as important to her as she had come to be to him. It would be foolish to think that she would ever come to love a place enough to settle – to think that the measly five years they have worked together were enough to changed that. It would be foolish to think that _he_ could have changed that.

Why, then, does that sting a little?

He clears his throat. "Don't you – don't you ever wish you had one?"

She studies him. "Sometimes," she says evenly. "Do you?"

"I have a home," he says, almost defensively.

"Oh, yeah?" She challenges. "Where is it, then?"

He opens his mouth to say _Brooklyn_, but the word dies in his throat.

Is it Brooklyn, if he hasn't lived there in years? Is it, if his memories of it are as painful as they are comforting? If he's maybe subconsciously avoided going back as much as he can?

Natasha smirks. "That's what I thought," she says, turning to toss the banana peel into the trash can. "Welcome to the nomad life."

_Nomad._ Steve turns the word over in his head as he stares at the emptiness in front of them. _Nomad_. In a way, he thinks, this may be what he was always supposed to become – but in a way, it seems fundamentally wrong for Captain America, Mr. America himself, to belong to nowhere at all.

Then again, he supposes, Captain America is gone, left behind with his friends and his country and the shield he'd let clatter out of his hand and onto a hard, rocky floor.

Steve doesn't know what that means for him, for his future, but if the mixture of relief and anxiety crawling up his shoulders is any indication – it's not going to be clear, nor will it be easy.


	4. i wake in the night, i pace like a ghost

The safe house is surprisingly comfortable.

Steve is struck by how welcoming the house feels as he steps over the threshold and takes in the pillows on the couch and the candles on the counter. From the way Sam's eyes widen, he'd guess that his companion feels the same.

Natasha notices, of course, and she rolls her eyes as she tosses a loaf of bread onto the kitchen island. "What were you expecting, cold steel and metal toilets?"

Sam shakes his head as he examines a candle that self-identifies as "Tropical Island". "Is this a safe house or a guest house?"

"In this case, it's both."

"Touché."

Natasha smirks and gestures to the hallway. "Anyway, there are technically two bedrooms, but since I never thought I'd bring people here, I converted one of them into an office. There's a cot in there that I used to take on trips, and the bedroom has a queen bed, so—"

"Someone's gonna get real cuddly," Sam guesses, grinning mischievously.

Natasha sighs as she starts unloading the groceries they'd picked up on the way. "I can take the cot if that makes you two more comfortable—"

"No," Steve says, just as Sam says the same thing, and Steve pointedly ignores the way Sam raises his eyebrows at him. "I just mean—this is your house. You're sleeping in the bed."

The grin on Sam's face grows wider. "I'll take the cot, then. I actually kind of miss sleeping on fake beds."

"Cool," Steve says, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. "It's settled, then."

"Yeah," Sam snickers. "Guess it is."

Natasha sighs again. "Well, when you two are done being children, we can start looking for a real bed for Sam."

"Sure," Sam says flippantly, waving a hand at them as he heads down the hallway. "No rush. Just keep it down in there, you two."

Natasha nails him in the back with an apple.

...

They develop a sort of routine over time, and if the circumstances were different Steve would say that it's the domestic life many people yearn for.

Natasha sets up a chore schedule that everyone follows diligently, the woods surrounding the house provide a good escape during their free time, and a board game collection is steadily building in the living room.

It's a content life, except for one thing.

Natasha still isn't talking to him.

Strictly speaking, she _does_ talk to him, but it's nothing past conversations about what they're eating that day and the occasional joke when Sam's around. She gives short answers to his questions and courtesy snorts to his jokes, and nothing beyond that.

And no matter how much Sam pushes him, Steve just can't bring himself to confront her about it.

"She's letting us stay in her safe house," he hisses one evening, as Natasha leaves their Scrabble game to go to the bathroom and Sam gives him the fifth you-need-to-talk-to-her look in two days. "I'm not starting a fight."

It isn't until a routine grocery shopping trip, three weeks in, that things start to change.

…

The two of them are walking through a farmer's market, reusable tote bags dangling from their hands, when Natasha sees a vendor selling fresh blueberries.

"What do you think about a blueberry ginger pie for dessert tonight?"

Steve turns toward the table. "I think I'm ready for baker Nat to rise."

A small smile rises unwittingly to her lips, but she forces a straight face as she bends her head to busy herself with picking blueberries. He comes to her side and helps, examining berries and dropping them into a plastic bag with a confused and somewhat hopeful silence.

A part of her feels bad for icing him out, but the rest of her is not ready for the conversation she knows they need to have—not just about the Red Room, but about everything before. And until that conversation is had, she can't pretend like everything is normal. Like their partnership hadn't been dead in the water just over a month ago.

Until that conversation is had, nothing is normal. No matter how natural it may feel wandering through the aisles of a farmers' market with him by her side.

So she picks her blueberries in silence, and once they've gathered enough she only nods to him before handing it over to the vendor to weigh. She meets the vendor's eyes to thank her, and that's when she sees it – the barest glint of silver, reflected ever so briefly in the vendor's wire-rimmed glasses.

Her body reacts automatically, and she spins around and wraps a hand around her assailant's wrist before her brain even processes what she's seen. Steve whips around, eyes wide, as she knocks the knife out of her attacker's hand and plants a foot into the hooded figure's chest.

Screams start sounding around them as the person hits the ground, and Natasha sees a black mask underneath the hood. She steps forward, but her path is immediately blocked by a horde of panicked shoppers running in every direction, and the assailant takes the opportunity to disappear in the mass of people. Natasha growls in frustration as she goes to search the crowd, but a pair of firm hands lands on her shoulders before she can maneuver her way past a single person.

"We need to go," Steve hisses in her ear. "Now."

He's right, she knows – staying longer will only make them bigger targets, and there is basically zero probability of them finding the assailant again. All the same, her jaw clenches as she turns away from the fruit stand and toward the exit.

The two of them walk quickly out the door and into the street, obscured to any casual onlooker by the mass of panicking people around them, and as they turn down a hidden alleyway and start sprinting away from the market, one question rises to the top of her mind – _who?_

…

Steve's heart is still pounding by the time they've checked their surroundings and rushed back into the safe house, slamming the door behind them.

"Okay," he pants, dropping his bags on the floor. "I've let this go on long enough, but if someone is trying to kill you, we need to be on the same page."

Natasha walks into the kitchen and he follows her, annoyance mounting steadily. "You haven't been the same since – well, since the Red Room, and if something's bothering you I'd like to know what it is."

She merely looks at him as she takes a bowl out of the cabinet.

He sighs, tamping down the frustration rising in his gut. "Was it the things that woman said? The – the headmistress? She was wrong, you know. You don't belong to her. Or them. You don't belong to anyone."

"No," she says quietly. "Nor anything. Some might say that's part of the problem."

Steve stares at her. "Are you serious?"

Annoyance flits across her face, and maybe it's his desperation to get _something_, anything that isn't the same emotionless void that she's been emitting the past few days, that makes him press.

"I mean, your entire schtick has been not belonging anywhere. And now you suddenly want a place to belong?"

"No," she responds tersely. "I thought I had one."

That gives him pause, and when he finally speaks his voice is low. "She was wrong, you know."

"Was she?"

"You _did _belong with the Avengers. With us."

"Yeah, and look where that got me. Right back where I started."

"Not exactly. You have friends now. People who can help you. Who _want_ to help you."

She laughs harshly. "What, like you?"

Steve recoils. "You _chose_ to come with me."

"Yeah, well, maybe the Headmistress was right. Maybe giving me the power to make my own choices was a mistake."

Steve blinks. She holds his gaze, her eyes filled with defiance, and his frustration at the fact that he has no idea what she wants brings his next words tumbling out of his mouth.

"Why do you even care? You've never cared about anything beyond your own survival."

He winces as soon as the words leave his mouth, but it's too late to take them back – that much is clear by the flash of anger in her eyes and clench in her jaw.

"I was the _only one_ who cared," she snaps. "For once. The rest of you were so self-involved and so intent on stroking your own egos that you were willing to sacrifice the entire team rather than compromise your position."

Steve stares at her. "Are you talking about the Accords? Because it was the principle of the thing—"

"I don't care," she snarls, slamming the bowl down so hard that it shatters underneath her hand. She ignores it. "Your _principles_ mean nothing if they hurt people in practice. Look at what your _values_ have done. Does your _shiny moral compass_ have a guide for living as a wanted fugitive for the rest of your life? Does your _wonderful _ideology cover being so obstinate that you would rather disband a group specifically constructed to save the world than submit yourself to _any_ other authority?"

"I don't trust governments," Steve mutters, and her eyes flare.

"You think I do? Which one of us has suffered more at the hands of a government, you or me?"

His mouth falls open, but she's not done.

"You really think the rest of that group would have just followed bureaucratic orders obediently? We'd compromise publicly, but if it came down to it, we would've found a way to keep people safe. Even with the Accords."

Steve starts staring at the loose thread in the hem of his shirt, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. Natasha lets him sit in silence for a few seconds, and when she speaks again every word cuts through his skin.

"It was never about trusting governments," she says, her voice as cold and hard as ice. "It was about trusting _us._ Trusting each other. It was about believing that we would find a way to do what was right, even if it was a little bit harder because we had to compromise to stay together. And you, the person who _taught me_ to put my faith in people, never did. I _cannot_ believe you still don't see that."

She stalks out of the kitchen, and Steve looks up to see a glimpse, through the window, of her back disappearing into the trees. Something hot starts to prickle at the back of his eyes.

He stays, frozen in that position, until the creak of a door opening sounds from down the hallway. Sam cautiously emerges from his room, and Steve coughs and turns away as Sam enters the kitchen.

"Didn't realize you were home," Steve mutters, trying to surreptitiously wipe his eyes.

"Where else would I be?"

He shrugs, his fingers playing anxiously with the hem of his shirt. "Hoped you might've gone for a run, or something."

Sam maneuvers past the counter and picks the trash can off the floor. "Who's trying to kill her?"

"I don't know," Steve says heavily, watching him wipe the shards of the bowl into the trash can. "I was hoping we'd figure that out together, but – "

"Yeah." Sam disappears for a moment, only to return with his hands full of their abandoned groceries. "Well, I'd chew you out, but I think she did that better than I ever could. What do you want for dinner?"

Steve blinks, then gives a dull shrug. "Surprise me."

"Suit yourself."

There's a beat of silence, and then – "Do you think she'll ever come back?"

"Oh, she'll come back," Sam says, pulling the blueberries out of the bag. "Just watch."

…

Natasha comes back on the third day.

She walks through the door unceremoniously, dropping her keys on the counter as if it is a normal morning.

Steve stands hurriedly from his seat by the kitchen table, the apology speech he's been rehearsing for three days at the tip of his tongue, but when he looks at her the words die in his throat.

"You dyed your hair."

She looks at him. "And cut it. Thanks for noticing."

He clears his throat uncomfortably, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I, um—I'm sorry."

She gives him a brisk nod. "It's fine."

"No, it's not, and it's not just about the terrible things I said—I mean, what I said was horrible, but also—"

"Not wrong," she interrupts softly. "I _did_ only care about my own survival. For a long time. And you found me in the place where that began."

"I shouldn't have pushed it."

She shrugs. "I should've been able to process it better."

He hesitates. "I also – I realized – it was never a choice between me and the Accords," he says quietly. "It was a choice between me and the _Avengers_. And I never should have put you in that position."

She smirks slightly, some of the old light back in her eyes, and something in his chest falls back into place.

Sam, naturally, chooses this time to enter the room. "Well, well," he says, a hint of concern underlying his words. "Look who's back."

Natasha gives him a slightly embarrassed smile. "Sorry for running out on you."

Sam shrugs. "Steve deserved it."

"Right, well, someone tried to stab her, so I was a little panicked," Steve says defensively, trying to change the subject. "Speaking of, we should figure out who that was."

"Actually, I think I have a pretty good idea," Natasha says, settling into the chair next to Steve. "I had a hunch, and it led me back to the Red Room. When I got there, it was clear that someone had been there – after us, I mean. So I examined the building, and everything was basically untouched, but then I got to the file room and it was completely empty."

Sam lets out a low hiss, and Steve drops back into his chair.

"Someone cleaned it out," Natasha says casually. "They took every file. And then I look in the room across from it – the room Steve was getting beat up in – and the body was gone."

Steve sits in a stunned silence, and Sam makes no move to speak.

"They know it was me," Natasha continues, looking significantly at Steve. "Remember? She said she'd set the trap so I'd come back. So they'd know that I was in the area, and they'd want to keep an eye out for me in case I hadn't left."

"Right," Steve says slowly. "So – "

"So we have two options. One is for us to split up – they're after me, not you, so – "

"Not an option," Steve interrupts firmly, just as Sam says "absolutely not."

"Okay," she says, and the gratified look on her face makes Steve's heart swell. "We can stay together, then. The only issue is Steve."

"Why?" Steve asks, slightly offended.

"Because they know you're with me. They would've seen you at the farmers' market. Which means you need to grow a beard."

"I – what?"

"You need to grow a beard," Natasha says patiently. "Because you need to be unrecognizable."

"You think I'd be unrecognizable with a beard?"

"Uh, yeah," she says, as if it is obvious. "When you say _Captain America_, does anyone ever imagine someone with a beard? Most people probably don't even think you can grow one."

There is a beat of silence.

"Wait, you _can_ grow a beard, right?"

"Of course I can," he says defensively. "I just have never had the need or desire to."

"Well, this is the perfect time to prove it."

"Fine. I'll do it, but not because you've goaded me into it. For survival."

"Sounds like something someone who's been goaded into it would say," Sam mutters.

"Shut up, Wilson."

Sam grins and raises his hands. "For the record, I'm with Romanoff on this one."

Steve groans. "I already said I'd do it. There is absolutely no need to gang up on me. Who are these people hunting us, anyway?"

Natasha bites her lip, suddenly serious. "That's the thing. I was wondering that too, and then I thought – isn't it weird that we both got tips that the Red Room was active? And that those tips were from historically reliable, presumably different informants? Why would a planted informant meet with T'Challa? And I had multiple – it's possible that a few of mine were hers, but there are some of them that I'd worked with for years and trusted implicitly. Besides, I know the Headmistress, and looking back on it, she tried to sell the 'you killed the Red Room' thing pretty hard."

Steve, who'd thought the Headmistress's tale of the fallen child-torture group was perfectly believable, feels a sense of foreboding start to creep slowly into his gut.

Natasha cracks her knuckles and stares at the table. "That's why I went back – I had this suspicion. And then I find that someone's moved all the files? The one thing in that building that was irreplaceable?"

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Sam asks, the thinly veiled panic in his voice causing Natasha to look up. "Please say you aren't saying what I think you're saying"

She swallows tightly before answering, and her next words send a chill down Steve's spine.

"The Red Room—they didn't end it. They just _moved_ it."


	5. the room is on fire, invisible smoke

September arrives with a light breeze and slightly cooler air, which everyone in the house is immensely grateful for.

"I think I'm going to propose to the ice cream lady at the south market," Sam announces as he walks through the door. "She's the only thing that got me through this summer."

Steve barely looks up from his book, chuckling from his armchair in the corner of the living room,.

"I still don't get why I have to do this," Sam says, extracting a folded newspaper from his bag and tossing it to Natasha, who snorts. "A random Black dude who shows up at a local market speaking broken Russian doesn't exactly blend in with the crowd."

"As I've told you many times before," Natasha says, turning back toward the table and opening the newspaper, "That's why we're rotating shops."

Sam drops down into a chair next to her, letting out a disgruntled huff as he does, and she gives a small laugh.

"You two don't get to complain, man. I had to teach you basic Russian, and I'm the one who has to actually read all of these."

"Hey," Steve protests. "I always do it when it's my turn, and I never complain."

"You complain about plenty of other things."

"I do not – "

"You _do_," Natasha insists. "Remember when I made you watch _When Harry Met Sally_? You got so annoying I almost kicked you out of the house."

"Because you make me watch rom-coms, like, _every day_, and while it's a nice premise the whole thing is that he doesn't think men and women can be friends because all her male friends secretly want to have sex with her, and it's gross and misogynistic and I'm surprised that you of all people enjoy it."

"It _is_ gross, but it was also made in the 80s, and originally the writers wanted them to end up just friends. You can enjoy things and also understand that they're problematic. Have some critical thinking skills."

Steve sighs, and Natasha rolls her eyes. "Besides, I never said you had to _like_ it. I'm just trying to catch you up on the incredible genre that is the romantic comedy. You need to have _fun_, Steve, and rom-coms are easy to watch because you get to just turn your brain off and watch two people fall in love. They're detached from the real world. That's why they're enjoyable."

"I just don't get why you love them so much. They're just – so _fake._"

"As I have explained to you at least five times," Natasha says, sounding exasperated, "That's _why_ I like them. They depict a real human experience with just enough fantasy for you to lose yourself in them."

"I thought you were a cynic."

Natasha narrows her eyes. "What does _that_ mean?"

"This is a fun conversation," Sam decides.

"Anyway," says Steve, raising his hands, "I don't complain about doing my shifts, which was what we were originally talking about."

"Well, I'm complaining," says Sam. "But only 'cause it's hot and my ice cream melted so fast I didn't get to eat half of it."

Natasha hums. "That sounds like a personal problem."

Sam's mouth drops open. Natasha straightens the newspaper with a huff and disappears behind it.

He watches the back of the paper for a while, then shakes his head and gets up. "No one pays attention to me in this house."

The corner of Steve's mouth twitches slightly, the only indication that either of Sam's companions hears him. Sam sighs dramatically and disappears into the bathroom to shower.

When he emerges, his skin blissfully free of sweat, dirt, and the remnants of his melted ice cream, Natasha and Steve are exactly where he left them.

"Alright," he says, stopping in the doorway and leaning against the wall, "Are we going to move today? The paper usually doesn't take this long, does it?"

The corner of the paper comes down to reveal one of Natasha's eyes. "Shut up," she says, almost absentmindedly. "I'm thinking."

Steve lowers his book ever so slightly.

"September 20th," Natasha mutters, tapping her finger against the paper. "September 20th. Where have I seen that date before?"

Sam glances at Steve, his confusion intensifying when Natasha leaps out of her chair and sprints to the stack of newspapers on the bookshelf.

Steve's book lands in his lap as Natasha rifles almost frantically through the newspapers, and his eyebrows knit together in slight concern. "Um, Nat – "

"I think I got it," she says eagerly, pulling a seemingly random page from the middle of the stack. "September 20th…September 20th…Yes! Here!"

She slams the paper down flat onto a table, looking at Sam and Steve expectantly.

"Um," Sam says, almost reluctant to dampen her clear excitement, "We can't read Russian."

"Right," she says breathlessly. "Well, a few weeks ago there was a notice about the Vice President of Human Rights Watch coming to Russia. Said he'd be visiting with someone at the U.S. Consulate."

"How do you remember that?"

"And then today, in a profile of this little girl who won a science competition that is really very touching, it says – here – 'Katerina says she is most excited about a tour of the American consulate that her class is taking on the twentieth.'"

She pauses, taking in the photograph. "She kind of looks like me, don't you think? Red hair and everything."

Sam glances at the picture. "Huh. She does. But keep going."

"So, a group of twelve-year-old girls, parading around the U.S. Consulate when a notable Human Rights Watch person is there too?"

There is a beat of silence, and then –

"They'd send a _twelve-year-old_ to assassinate the _Vice President_ of the _Human Rights Watch_?"

Natasha looks up at him, her brow furrowing slightly. "Uh, yeah. Haven't you read my file?"

"No," Sam retorts, almost defensively. "Why would I?"

Surprise flits briefly across her face. "Well," she says, giving him a small, tight smile, "I promise you that they would, in fact, send a twelve-year-old to assassinate the Vice President of the Human Rights Watch."

Steve, who has watched this whole exchange with an increasingly broad grin, shuts his book and places it on the table next to him.

"Well," he says. "Looks like we have a plan."

"We do not have a plan," says Natasha. "We have nothing close to a plan. We literally only have a date, and we don't even know for sure that it's the one."

Steve shrugs. "That's a step towards a plan. I'm trying to be optimistic, here."

Natasha rolls her eyes, and Steve's grin grows even wider. "We have plenty of time," he says. "Do you guys wanna play Scrabble?"

They do.

Sam loses spectacularly, an outcome that becomes clearly inevitable after his fifth play. He scowls and decides to lose with dignity, opting to watch the other two duke it out instead of fighting a battle he knows he will lose.

"You and Steve have very different definitions of losing with dignity," Natasha says.

"Yeah, well, one of you is going to be downright homicidal by the end of this, and I'd rather watch it than be a part of it."

He is proven correct as the board starts to fill – Steve starts pulling ahead, gaining more and more points with every turn, and Natasha's face starts to look more and more murderous.

Steve wins with a _Q_ placed ever so delicately onto a triple letter square, and Natasha actually growls.

"I'm going to gut you in your sleep and paint a sunrise with your intestines," she mutters darkly.

Steve laughs. "Yeah. Do you want pasta for dinner?"

A muscle in her jaw tenses slightly before she folds her arms and lets out a huff. "Only if we watch _Crazy, Stupid, Love_ while we eat it."

As September twentieth draws nearer, game nights are abandoned more and more frequently in favor of evenings crowded around the kitchen table, the three of them poring over maps and stolen blueprints.

The evening of the nineteenth finds them in a familiar position, Natasha tapping a pencil almost idly on the notebook lying open in front of her.

"Right," she says, and Steve picks his head up off the table. "I think we have everything. Outfits, forged guest passes, and we know what time the tour group is arriving – "

"_Craig is coming in at one, which is conveniently just before the field trip arrives, and he says it's because he has work to do but we all know it's because he doesn't want to miss his chance to brag about his job to a bunch of kids_," Sam recites immediately, an exaggerated Boston accent coloring his words.

"We're ready." Steve runs a finger over the laminated guest pass in front of him. "We've spent almost a month sneaking around, finding entrances and exits, eavesdropping on conversations to learn things. We can do this."

Natasha blows a strand of hair out of her face, then sets her mouth in a grim, determined line. "Get some sleep, then. We'll go over the plan one last time tomorrow morning."

As she lays in bed late that night, the moon filtering softly through the window, Natasha recounts the plan over and over in her head. When she finally drifts off, however, her mind is not on floorplans and American history; rather, her dreams are filled with little redheaded girls with guns in their hands and hatred in their eyes.

"You seem chipper today," observes Steve the next morning, as he watches Natasha finish off her eyeliner with a flourish.

"I'm getting into character," she replies, tucking a tube of lipstick into the pocket of her blazer. "I'm supposed to be a preppy tour guide who just _loves it_ when kids express an interest in government, remember?"

Steve rolls his eyes as he straightens his name tag. "How could I forget? You made us go over our roles until we could each write 500-page biographies about them on the spot."

"You can never be too careful." Natasha glances over at him, then smiles slightly. "You look great, by the way. Completely believable."

"Shut up," Steve grumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I can't believe you get to lead the group and I have to be a janitor."

"If you're anyone else people will think they should know you," she explains patiently. "But no one important cares enough about the janitors, and – "

"No one important cares enough about female tour guides," Steve mutters. "Yeah, I know, you've said it once or twice."

"Well, stop complaining, then." Natasha picks up her purse and heads to the door, bumping into Steve with a playful shoulder as she passes him. "See you out there, janitor Al."

They park Nakia's Camry in an empty field a good distance away from the consulate and walk the rest of the way, munching on sandwiches en route.

"Okay," Sam says as they arrive at the alleyway where the first phase of their plan is scheduled to take place. "It's just hit noon, so she should be here in around ten minutes."

"Cool," Natasha says. "Time to hide."

Ten minutes later, a nicely dressed woman steps into the alleyway, her phone in one hand and a takeout container in the other. She has just passed a locked door that the three hidden people know, from their scouting trips, to lead into a restaurant kitchen when the phone vibrates. The woman lifts it, frowning, but she hardly has time to glance at the caller ID before Natasha emerges from behind a dumpster and smacks her in the head with a crowbar.

The woman crumples immediately.

"That still feels kind of mean," Sam says, frowning slightly.

"Oh, she'll be fine," Natasha says dismissively, extracting a bobby pin from her hair and sticking it into the padlock on the door beside her. "The restaurant will find her when they open for the dinner shift or she'll wake up and have no idea what happened. Either way, she'll only be out for a few hours."

The lock gives way and Natasha yanks the door open, looking expectantly at her companions.

Steve sighs as he bends to carry the woman into the kitchen. "It seems cruelly ironic to dump her in a kitchen when she didn't even have time to finish her lunch."

"Oh, my God," Natasha says, following him into the room. "I can't believe I agreed to bring you guys along." She bends to read at the unconscious woman's nametag and makes a face. "Her name is _Lakynn? _I have to pretend to be related to someone named _Lakynn?_ Good God."

Steve smirks. "Now who's complaining?"

Natasha punches him in the arm on the way out the door. "Let's go, boys. We're gonna be late."

They hover in the alleyway for a little longer, Natasha peering at the road beyond it and Sam watching the back end to make sure no one unexpected turns up. When a man in a suit and tie appears, walking purposefully towards the red-bricked building down the street, Natasha slips out of the alley and flashes him a wide smile.

"Hi," she says brightly, falling into step beside him. "Craig, right?"

He looks up with a faintly confused air, and when he speaks his voice is slightly hostile. "Who's asking?"

"Oh, sorry!" Natasha says airily. "I'm Nicole, I work at the consulate too."

Craig looks her up and down, raising an eyebrow appreciatively as he does. "Are you new? I don't think I've ever seen you before – and trust me, I think I'd remember."

"I'm usually at the Yekaterinburg location," she answers easily, desperately hoping that Steve is too far behind them to overhear their conversation. "But I'm covering for Lakynn today – she called at lunch and said she had a terrible headache."

He gives her a smile that makes her spine crawl, then inserts a key into the door in front of them. "Oh, yeah? Well, good luck. Those kids can be a handful. And if you need a drink after, I'd be happy to buy you one."

She bats her eyelashes at him as he pockets the keys and swings the door open, then steps between him and the doorway and lodges a foot in front of the door, preventing it from closing.

"One second, please," she says sweetly. "I have a question to ask you, and I'd rather not be overheard."

"Of course," he says eagerly. "What is it?"

She shrugs just as a fist comes swinging out of thin air, connecting solidly with the side of Craig's face.

"Huh," Steve says with a voice full of disdain, looking down at his victim's unconscious body. "He seems like an asshole."

Natasha laughs as Sam emerges from the shadows to drag the body hastily into the alleyway. "He's also the only person who actually uses the back door. Do you think it's an arrogance thing?"

"It's definitely an arrogance thing," Sam says, wiping his hands on his pants as he rejoins them. "But I'm not complaining. This is a hell of a lot easier than going through a metal detector with a gun."

They step through the door as discreetly as possible, gliding down the hallway with footsteps that are almost silent. When they arrive at the end of the corridor, Natasha stops and looks back at her companions.

"Everyone got their earpieces?" She whispers.

Both men nod.

"And you know your stations, know your roles?"

They both nod again.

"Right, then," she says, almost nervously. "See you soon."

"Good luck," Steve says, and Sam gives her a small smile. "Knock 'em dead, Nicole."

Natasha grins, then backs out of the hallway.

She keeps her head down as she maneuvers through the building, navigating the floors by memory. The main entrance comes up more quickly than she expects, and as she ducks into the bathroom closest to it she glances down at her watch.

It's 12:50, which means she's right on time. A quick check reveals the bathroom to be completely empty, so Natasha slips into one of the stalls and taps her earpiece.

"I'm in position," she says.

"Same," comes Steve's voice. "And someone asked me out in the elevator up."

"What'd you say?"

"No, obviously. I clean floors and toilets fourteen hours a day; I don't have time to date."

Natasha hums, a small smile floating onto her lips. "Pity. They might've been your soulmate."

"Somehow, I doubt it."

"Hey," interrupts Sam, his voice crackling slightly through the intercom. "Cut the flirtfest. I'm here too, thanks for asking."

"I did ask," Natasha protests. "We were waiting for you to check in."

"Well, I'm here," he says, with an audible grin. "Checking in."

"Great," she mutters, leaning against the wall and examining the graffiti on the stall door. "Let me know – "

"If we see anything," finishes Steve. "We know."

Natasha rolls her eyes, then glances back down at her watch. To kill the rest of her time, she reads an oddly beautiful poem about unrequited love carved into the door. When the time hits 1:10, she leaves the stall, pushes open the bathroom door, and starts running towards the entrance, where a small group of schoolchildren have gathered at the Guest Services table.

"I'm so sorry," she gasps, sounding as out of breath as she would if she had just run a mile. "I'm taking this group."

The man at the table diverts his attention to her and narrows his eyes slightly. "You weren't assigned to them."

"I know," she pants. "I'm covering for Lakynn – I'm a personal friend, I'm usually at Yekaterinburg but she called me, like, an hour ago, saying she had a terrible migraine and needed me to cover – "

"Well, ordinarily this would be a little more complicated, but given that these folks have already been waiting for ten minutes, I think it's more important that they get their tour started." He turns back towards his computer with an apologetic shrug. "Hope Lakynn briefed you on the tour."

Natasha lets her shoulders sag with visible relief, then turns to the chaperone with an embarrassed smile. "Hi, I'm so sorry about that, my friend is really very sick – "

"No worries at all," the woman says with a kind smile. Natasha recognizes her from the paper as the science girl's teacher. "We're just excited to be here."

"Well, I'm excited you're here, too." She flashes the girls a winning smile. "Hi, everyone! I'm Nicole, and I'll be your tour guide today. Please feel free to ask me any questions you might have. Now, let's get going!"

Natasha leads the group deeper into the building, finally coming to a stop in front of a large conference room. "You lot are very, very lucky. We don't usually give tours to people – you must be very special for the bosses to make an exception."

"Katerina won a big science competition," one little girl pipes up from the back. "And she's very interested in government, so she begged our teacher to find a way for us to tour."

"Wow! Which one of you is Katerina?"

The little redhead raises a shy hand, and Natasha smiles at her. "Science _and_ government, huh? You must be incredibly smart. You're going to be an incredible leader one day."

Katerina blushes and stammers her thanks. The teacher beams.

"Layin' on the flattery a little thick, don't you think?" Sam asks through the earpiece. Natasha ignores him in favor of waving a hand in the direction of the conference room.

"This is a very important conference room," she explains, searching the faces of the children in front of her for anything out of the ordinary. "Many big decisions have been made here."

"Like what?" Katerina asks.

"Like – well, like – uh, actually, the Sentencing Reform Act of 1984 was actually first pitched here."

"I am almost one hundred percent certain that is not true," says Steve.

"Shut up," Natasha mutters under her breath. "Most Americans don't even know what that law is, a bunch of Russian twelve-year-olds aren't gonna know."

She heads down another hallway, leading them farther away from where she knows the Human Rights Watch VP to be. Making sure to keep a steady stream of chatter going, she takes the group throughout the building, surreptitiously studying each student as she does.

As it soon turns out, she doesn't need to.

"Excuse me," a small, mousy-haired girl says, taking a step forward. "I heard that someone from the Human Rights Watch is here today. Would we be able to meet him?"

Her voice sends a jolt of adrenaline down Natasha's spine. "Well, actually, now that you've asked," she says, forcing a friendly smile, "We were going to surprise you with him! I'll lead you to the room if you all promise to pretend like you didn't know."

There is a chorus of excited assent, and Natasha turns down yet another hallway, her spine suddenly ramrod straight.

"In here," she says, coming to a stop by a second, smaller conference room. He'll be with you shortly."

The girls file past her, and when they get inside the mousy-haired girl raises her hand again.

"Miss Nicole, may I go to the bathroom?"

"Of course," Natasha says, scanning her outfit to see where a weapon might be hidden. "Down the hallway, take a left turn at the end, and then it's the third door to your right."

The girl leaves, and Natasha counts to five before turning to the teacher. "Actually, I'd better go with her – don't want her to get lost."

She steps out of the room just in time to see the girl's shoes turn the corner. Natasha hurries after her, only to pull up short when she takes the left turn and sees an empty hallway.

"I knew you weren't a real tour guide," a voice says, and Natasha's heart drops as she spins around to see the girl.

Natasha smirks, carefully keeping any hint of uneasiness out of her expression. "You've been taught well, I see. What's your name?"

"Alia," she says, with a face full of skepticism. "And not entirely. Everyone knows the Sentencing Reform Act of 1984 has nothing to do with Russia. Why would it have been drafted here?"

"Well," Natasha mutters. "I guess you got me there. But I'm afraid you'll have to return to you class – "

"They're not my class," Alia informs her, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "And I'm afraid you'll have to move aside. I have a job to do."

Natasha sighs, shifting her body so that she's blocking the hallway Alia's been sneaking glances at. Surprise flits across Alia's face, and Natasha smirks. "You _have _been taught well, but I'm afraid you still have much to learn, little one."

"Fine," Alia snarls. "I'll take another route."

She spins and sprints down a different corridor, and Natasha feels a slight pang of exasperation as she takes off in pursuit.

"Nat!" Sam yells suddenly, making Natasha wince. "We've got a problem!"

"Yeah, I know," she snaps, skidding around another corner. "I'm chasing it."

"No," he says frantically, "There's another one! Just ran past me."

"I have one too," barks Steve, as a crashing sound emanates from a room in front of Natasha. "In pursuit."

With renewed urgency, Natasha flies across the floor and into the room where the sound came from. She skids to a stop as she sees a wall of people in suits, each of them pointing a gun at Alia, who is standing in front of the window with a defiant expression on her face and a gun of her own.

Everyone turns to look at her when she enters, but Alia's stare remains on her even as the rest of the group turns their attention back to their target.

"Where did you get that gun?!" Natasha asks incredulously.

"Took it off a security guard."

"_When?!"_

Alia gives a cold, barking laugh, and Natasha hopes she never has to hear a twelve-year-old make that sound again. "Keep up, old lady."

"Stop talking," a man snaps. Natasha guesses he's part of the security detail. "Put that gun down, girl. We _will_ shoot."

"So will I," she retorts. "I don't answer to you."

"No," says Natasha, forcing herself through the line of security. "You answer to the Headmistress."

Alia's eyes widen slightly. "Who _are_ you?"

"My real name is Natasha," she says, gesturing at the people behind her to back away. "And I'm also from the Red Room."

"You're one of us?"

"I was," Natasha says slowly. "But I got out. And you can too."

"No," Alia says, her lip trembling slightly. "This is a test."

"It's not," Natasha says gently. "The Headmistress is dead."

"No!"

"She is," Natasha murmurs. "I saw it with my own eyes. Don't you think it's a bit weird that she hasn't been around in over a month?"

"You're a liar!" Alia shrieks, but a bit of uncertainty has entered her eyes.

"I can help you," Natasha whispers, allowing a tad of desperation to enter her voice. "Let me help you. You can live a full life, a life free of beatings and trainings and interrogations. Please."

Alia hesitates, and for a split second Natasha feels a surge of hope.

"I'm going to keep you safe," she promises. "You'll finally be free."

The gun drops to Alia's side, and as she opens her hand to let it fall, Natasha happens to glance out the window.

What she sees sends a wave of horror washing through her: a horde of people are currently descending on the window, and the person in front has a shotgun pointed directed at Alia.

"No!" she screams, just as Alia spins around to see what she's looking at. Natasha throws herself at Alia, sending them both sprawling on the ground. The bullet smashes through the window, and Natasha dives for Alia before anyone can react, scooping her into her arms and diving out the new hole in the glass.

"Are you crazy?" Alia shrieks. Natasha fires a grappling hook in response, swinging the two of them below the horde of armed military diving into the building.

"Come on," Natasha pants, releasing the rope as soon as their feet hit the ground. "We have to get you out of here."

She grabs Alia's hand, then turns and runs directly into a woman she thought she'd never see again.

There is a moment of shocked silence before Natasha gives a single, stiff nod.

"Agent Hill."

"Romanoff," Hill says, her eyes narrowed slightly. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"You could, but I'm not holding hands with someone who matches the description of a girl who was trying to kill someone in the American consulate five minutes ago."

Alia actually laughs, and Natasha glares at her.

"What?" she says. "That was funny."

"She's from the Red Room," Natasha explains, tightening her grip on Alia's hand. "They started it up again, I came on a hunch."

"Ah," says Hill, her face suddenly much more understanding. "I see."

"I can help her," Natasha almost pleads. "Maria, let me help her."

Maria stays silent for what feels like an eternity, chewing her lip in thought.

"You can't," Maria says finally. "But we can."

"W-What?"

"With all due respect, you're a wanted war criminal with very scarce resources," Maria says, smiling slightly. "But we have a whole system in place to help people like – sorry, what's your name?"

"Alia," she says quietly.

"Like Alia. How would you like to come with me? I'm friends with Natasha, here, and we have a considerable amount of money and infrastructure that helps people just like you."

Alia looks up at Natasha, a questioning look on her face, and Natasha's heart breaks a little.

"Yeah," Natasha says softly. "Their deprogramming system is pretty great."

"Does it work?" Alia asks doubtfully. "Does it really get me out of it?"

Natasha smiles at that, releasing her hand and giving her a gentle nudge toward Maria.

"It worked for me," she says gently.

Maria gives Alia a kind smile that seems to bolster her confidence somewhat, and she walks slowly Maria's side and turns back toward Natasha.

"Thanks, Nicole," she says, and Natasha laughs.

"See you around, Alia."

The scene inside the consulate has deteriorated rapidly, and as Natasha steps back into the building she feels herself jolt back into work-mode.

"Where are you guys?" she asks, watching a large group of armed men storm across the open floor. "What's going on?"

"She's still running!" Steve yells. "Third floor, heading west, if you can cut her off."

"I could use some help too," Sam says, his voice tight with forced calm. "I've got her, in the second office on the first floor, but she's got the secretary at gunpoint and is threatening to shoot him if I don't let her go."

Natasha curses as she starts to run, slamming through the staircase doors. "Don't kill them! Injure if you have to, but don't kill!"

"I know," Steve says sardonically. "That's why we're in this situation."

The second floor comes up exceedingly quickly, and Natasha makes a split-second decision and hurtles into the hallway. She sprints the full way down, counting doors as she passes, and readies her gun as she approaches the office wing.

She barely glances into the second office before firing a single shot, and is already climbing the west staircase by the time Sam lets out a whoop of triumph.

"Right in the foot! Nice shot, Romanoff."

"I know," she gasps, hurtling through the door on the third floor. "Maria Hill's outside, take the girl to her and tell Maria to take her to deprogramming."

"Maria Hill is _what?_"

"Deprogramming!" Natasha barks, sprinting across the floor. "Now!"

"Okay, yep, copy."

A flurry of footsteps sounds down the hallway to her left, and Natasha turns to see Steve chasing a small, red-headed girl towards her.

Natasha unholsters her gun and points it directly at the girl, who stops.

"Ah, Katerina," Natasha says, her voice hard. "I should have known."

Katerina stares at her and says nothing.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Natasha continues evenly. "Not unless you try something."

"I'm not afraid of you," Katerina spits, raising her chin. "I have a job to do and I'm going to do it."

"Hill has the girl," Sam says over the intercom, and Natasha smiles.

"You shouldn't be afraid of me," Natasha says. "Because I'm here to help you."

"I don't need help."

"You spent, what, a year infiltrating this school? All for the chance at a mission, the chance to prove yourself?" Natasha shakes her head. "You've failed. The Red Room will not be forgiving. But I can protect you from their wrath. I know what it takes, what it's like. I was like you, once."

"You're lying," she hisses. "And I don't need you."

Natasha sighs. "This isn't who you have to be, Katerina."

"That's not my name," she snarls. "My name is Death."

There is a beat of silence.

"Well," Steve says mildly. "That seems melodramatic."

Both women ignore him.

"You are not Death," Natasha says quietly. "You are anything but. Do you know what they called me, back in the Room?"

"I don't care," says the redhead.

"They called me the Black Widow." Natasha tilts her head slightly. "But I much prefer my real name."

Katerina lets out a short, acrid laugh. "_You?!_ The _Black Widow_?!"

"Come with me," Natasha pleads. "I can help you. Your two friends have already joined us."

"Then they are cowards," she sneers. "And even if I cannot do this job alone, I will not forsake those who have trained me."

And with that, she dives out the window.

Steve and Natasha move forward with identical noises of alarm, but as their gazes rake the ground below they find it bewilderingly empty.

"How did she – "

"Must've had something in her hand," Natasha mutters. "They used to have some stuff for us to make hasty escapes if we needed to – small detonators to break windows, things like that."

"But how did she sneak it through security?"

"That would've been the easiest part of the whole thing, Steve."

They turn away from the window and head down the stairs, but there is no urgency in their steps. For it is an unspoken understanding between both of them that even if they managed to fly, if they somehow could teleport, Katerina would still be long gone by the time they reach the ground.

Sam greets them when they exit the building with a small, tired smile.

"Did you get her?" Natasha asks, though they all know the answer.

Sam shakes his head. "Nope. Saw a flash of her, though."

"Well," Natasha says wearily, watching the strike team pile into their vans, "If they didn't know we were after them before, they sure do now."

Everyone lets that sit for a moment, the three of them standing in a tired silence as the strike team peels off, van by van. Maria is the last one to leave, shepherding everyone else into their vehicles before entering one of her own.

Natasha watches the whole process, and something clenches in her chest when she sees Maria lead both little girls into the last van and close the door. As if she senses it, Maria turns to look at her, one hand still on the door handle.

They hold each other's gazes for a moment, and Natasha feels as if the entire weight of the universe is loaded into that second.

Maria breaks it off, giving Natasha a wistful smile and then climbing into the car herself. With a shake of her head, Natasha turns her attention back to her companions, who are both watching her.

"She covered for us, you know," Sam says. "Made sure the rest of them didn't look too closely at us."

"She's always been a good one," Steve murmurs.

"Yeah," Natasha says stiffly, as she feels an unwelcome pang of grief. "Yeah, she's a good one."

The trudge back to their car takes an eternity, and as they collapse into their seats Sam lets out a groan.

"I really wish I hadn't volunteered to drive on the way back."

"No take-backs," Natasha says, kicking her shoes off and lifting her legs onto the passenger seat. Sam sighs.

Steve settles into other side of the backseat, and he looks over at her as the car starts moving.

"You okay?"

She forces a smirk, shoving him gently against the door. "Are _you_? Your shirt looks like it's been shredded in the _National Enquirer _office. I can literally see your pec."

He chuckles, but it's empty, and Natasha sighs. They're both silent for a moment.

"I was just asking." His face is barely visible in the dark, but his voice is soft and she can see the concern in the knit of his eyebrows and the set of his mouth.

"Yeah," she breathes. "Yeah, I'm okay. It was just weird, seeing Maria."

He nods, and when he speaks his voice is gentle with understanding. "A reminder of the past, huh?"

"Yeah," she says, her voice hollow. She gives a short, humorless laugh that echoes in the emptiness around them. "Something like that."


	6. and all of my heroes die all alone

Everyone is a little more tense after the consulate.

Their day-to-day operations don't change, exactly – the transition back to scouting and information-searching is a smooth one – but laughs are a little heavier, smiles a little more apprehensive. The events at the consulate are still weighing on everyone's minds, Steve knows – God knows they're weighing on his – but he thinks it's almost like everyone is waiting for the next thing to hit. Like they're all living in the eye of a hurricane of their own creation, just waiting for the quiet to get blown apart.

"Nothing," Natasha says for the tenth day in a row, folding a newspaper and letting it fall onto the counter. "Again."

None of them bother to hide their relief.

Steve turns back to the crossword he's working on, but he's scarcely read the next clue before the burner phone in the middle of the table vibrates, making all of them jump far too noticeably.

"It's an unknown number." Natasha's brow furrows slightly. "That's weird."

Sam stares at the phone as if it is audibly ticking, one hand frozen around the egg he'd been about to crack. "Who has the number to that phone?"

Natasha frowns. "Clint, Wanda, and Fury – but their numbers are all saved."

No one makes a move to answer the phone, but nobody's gaze moves from it, either. The phone stops vibrating, then immediately starts vibrating again.

Natasha looks around at her companions' expressions, then smirks. "Okay, so we're all a little tense."

"I hate this," Steve mutters. "I hate this, I hate this – "

"Don't answer it," Sam says suddenly. "Don't."

"Oh, my God," Natasha says, reaching across the table and grabbing the phone. "This is not a horror movie."

She flips the phone open with a dramatic flourish and hits the speaker button. "Who is this?"

"This is Maria Hill."

Steve's pencil drops onto the table. Natasha flashes a grin at him. "Hi, Maria."

"I hope you don't mind – I got your number from Nick, he said you might not pick up – "

"I wasn't going to, but the boys annoyed me into doing it."

"Right. How are they, by the way?"

"Great," Sam says, the sarcastic edge to his voice only slightly lined with anxiety. "Great, yeah, we're great – "

"Awesome, so listen – I know you've been trying to work this Red Room thing – "

"What gave you that impression?" Steve interrupts.

"Well – and hi, Steve, nice to hear your voice again – we all saw each other at the consulate, didn't we, and Natasha told me – "

"I told you they were from the Red Room," Natasha says, her voice suddenly more guarded. "I didn't say we were working on it."

There is a brief pause on the other end of the line.

"Come on, Nat," Hill says, her voice sounding tinny through the phone. "We all know you're trying to take them down, and we all know why."

Neither Sam nor Steve makes a move to respond; both of them watch the parade of expressions that makes its way across Natasha's face before she answers.

"Why did you call me, Maria?"

"Because, if you _did_ happen to be launching a semi-organized takedown of the Red Room, we could help."

"We're wanted war criminals."

"Well, not in the open, obviously, but – "

Natasha cuts her off, her voice dangerously calm. "Does anyone know you're calling me, Maria?"

"No," Maria says after a beat. "Fine, so it's just me. No one else really believes the Red Room is up and running, they all think the girls we took in were just – for lack of a better word – remnants from the first. But you know better. So if you were to, say, find out where it's currently located, and I were to get an anonymous tip about an underground weapons facility, we could launch a more coordinated assault and end this thing once and for all."

"Let me get this straight," Natasha says, every word coated in heavy skepticism. "You want us to do all the work, get all the info, risk our lives, and then just call you at the end for the grand finale?"

"Let's be real, Romanoff. We both know that's what you're trying to do anyway. I'm offering help, to the extent we can provide it. And while the three of you are formidable, there is no way you'd be able to singlehandedly defeat the dozens of people in there who have specifically been raised to be weapons."

"Right," Natasha scoffs.

"In the meantime, if you manage to get any of the other girls out of there – I'm happy to take them. Just contact me and we'll set something up – couple hours turnaround, guaranteed."

"So you're still in Russia."

Maria pauses, and when she speaks again there is a hint of a smile in her voice. "Impressive as always, Agent Romanoff."

"I'm not an agent," Natasha says, her tone perfectly neutral. "And we'll think about it. Thanks."

She snaps the phone shut with more force than necessary, then looks up, daring her companions to challenge her.

"I think," Steve says slowly, "That you already know what we have to do."

She narrows her eyes, and Steve continues hastily. "I know it's unfair for them to maybe take credit for this, if this all ends the way we want it to, but she's right. We need all the help we can get. We're three guerilla fighters going up against a state-backed institution that is manufacturing human weapons. And, honestly – "

"It's not about us," Natasha mutters. "I know."

"It's about those girls," Steve says gently. "And doing whatever we can to make sure they get out, and making sure that no one ever has to go through what you went through again."

"No one knows that more than me."

"Yeah," Steve says, almost wearily. Natasha lowers her gaze to her hands, and he is suddenly struck by how similar she looks to a certain frustrated, defiant little girl, screaming at him in the middle of a hallway. "I know."

The thing about having a life that is essentially a sequence of nightmarish memories is that, well, nightmares are commonplace.

For Steve, they are so commonplace that he has largely learned to distinguish the moments he is dreaming from the moments he is not. And while that may sound like a fairly unimpressive ability in comparison to the other things he can do, there are times Steve is pretty sure that being aware he's dreaming is the one reason he hasn't gone absolutely insane.

Tonight, for example, he's walking down a disgusting, narrow hallway, and the _you're dreaming, this isn't real_ playing on a loop in his head is the only thing inhibiting the debilitating fear threatening to flood his veins.

_It's not real, none of this is real_, and his thoughts are repeating it like a mantra, but his footsteps are impossibly loud in the emptiness of the hallway, and the lights flickering overhead seem too menacing to be fake.

It's not real, because his legs are walking of their own accord, and that would be laughable in the waking world. He's dreaming, he has to be, because he's walking into a room that is coated in red paint so bright it hurts his not-real eyes. His brain is making this up, it's making it all up, the vivid crimson of the walls, the stack of empty metal beds in the corner that looks like it just got shipped in from a prison, the man tied to the chair in the middle of the room – the one who's looking up at him now –

"Steve," Bucky rasps, and Steve's not-heart stops in his chest.

_It's a dream_, he thinks faintly. _It's not real_.

It's not real, but the haunting desperation in Bucky's eyes sure feels like it is, and the way Steve suddenly finds himself unable to tear his eyes away feels very, very real.

Then, to his horror, Bucky's face begins to morph – it twists, first in agony and then in something else, and _none of this is real _but Steve can only watch in shock and slight revulsion as the man in front of him transforms, slowly and gradually but undeniably into the small, defiant little redhead who has been haunting his thoughts for over a week.

"Katerina," he hears his dream-self say.

She looks up at him, pain and betrayal written all over her features, and Steve's gut twists. _It's not real, _he reminds himself, but it _is_, and before she can open her mouth to speak her face starts twisting again.

"No," he cries, stumbling toward the chair, and as he falls to the ground in front of it the cement that hits his knees feels far too solid to be imaginary. "Wait!"

But dreams wait for no one, as he's learned so many times, and the child in front of him contorts and mutates and _it's not real_ but suddenly the legs in front of him are lengthening and thickening and dread is pooling in his stomach.

He raises his head, slowly, and before he is ready for it, he is staring straight into the face of Natasha Romanoff.

"Natasha," he says hoarsely, but she appears not to hear him. "Natasha!"

She looks down, then, but something is wrong – her eyes are too empty for the Natasha he knows, and it feels eerily as if she knows he is there but cannot see him, as if she is staring right through him.

Her eyebrows knit together in an achingly familiar fashion, and when she whispers his name he feels it reverberate around the room.

He places a tentative hand on her knee, and _it's not real_ but suddenly her body is writhing in what appears to be unspeakable agony, and he rips his hand off but it's still happening, her mouth is still open in an earth-shattering, silent scream, and _it's not real_ but he's yelling her name and when her eyes land on him this time he knows immediately that she can see him this time.

"Steve," she whimpers, and what feels like a bolt of lightning jolts down his spine, rooting him in place. He wants to help, he has to help, and _it's not real _but he feels somehow as if he is responsible for this, for all of this, but it's not real – "_Steve_ – " it's _not real –_

"_Steve!_"

He bolts upward suddenly, his breath coming in loud gasps. Panting, he looks wildly around the room – it's dark, the moonlight filtering gently through the window, and his hands are wrapped around the edge of a soft, warm comforter. _It's real, you're back –_

Sitting near his feet is Natasha, who has clearly just scrambled there from her original position of yelling in his face. She places a comforting hand on his thigh, and the gesture anchors him to the bed with surprising intensity.

"You were screaming," she informs him. "Sorry, I was worried you'd wake Sam up, so I thought waking you up was the best thing to do."

"It was," he mutters, rubbing his eyes. "Thanks."

She nods, her gaze equal parts sympathetic and concerned. He lowers his head, partially in embarrassment, and she snorts.

"Nightmares are normal, Steve. Especially for people like us."

It occurs to him, then, how un-spooked she seems, how normal this situation seems to be for her.

He takes a deep breath in an effort to slow his heart rate, and when he speaks, he speaks to the comforter clenched tightly in his hand. "I had a handle on it, for a while. It wasn't happening – I wasn't dreaming. For the past few years, at least."

She makes a small noise of assent, and he wonders if she'd picked up on that – if during some of the nights they'd spent next to each other she'd waited for him to wake up screaming.

"The consulate was a lot for all of us," she says gently.

"Yeah, but, like – I've seen so much worse, you know? I've seen people die terrible deaths in front of me, I've watched my best friend get tortured out of his mind, I just – " He looks up, which is definitely a mistake, because her gaze locks onto his and he suddenly feels like he can't breathe again. "I just – I keep seeing you in her."

Natasha's expression changes immediately, and Steve knows she knows exactly what he's talking about.

"I let her go," he whispers. "She's gone back to that hellhole and it's my fault."

"Steve," Natasha says carefully, "I was there, too."

"But she was _my_ mark. You and Sam both got yours, and she just – "

"Do you know the story of how I joined SHIELD?" Natasha interrupts.

"Yeah, everyone does."

"Right. Well, Clint gave me a _choice_, Steve. Sure, he almost killed me first, but then he gave me a choice. And I said yes." She folds her arms. "We gave her a choice, too. We laid our cards bare; we gave her the opportunity."

"And she didn't take it."

"So we keep trying."

Steve stays silent, and Natasha rolls her eyes. "You think if you'd have chased me down during some random mission and told me you could save me, I would've come with you? I would've done _exactly_ what she did. She's pretty deep in it, and this stuff takes time. We got lucky with the other two – _they_ were the aberrations, not Katerina."

"I guess." Steve sighs, tucking his legs in towards him and hugging his knees. "It's just been weighing on me more than things usually do, for some reason. Maybe I just had too much time off. Got too relaxed. And now that I'm back in it, it's like my brain doesn't know how to process it."

"It happens to all of us." The corner of Natasha's mouth quirks up. "Why do you think I like rom-coms so much?"

"_Please_," Steve groans, making Natasha grin. "Please do not subject me to this conversation again."

"I'm serious," she says, with a light laugh. "They're distractions. I can watch them and not think about anything – not Katerina, not my past, not the things I've seen. For two hours, I can watch two people fall in love in an entirely unrealistic fashion and pretend like hundreds of people wouldn't like to kill me at any moment."

"I guess I could see that."

"I'm the most pragmatic person you'll ever meet. And even I need to lose myself in fantasy sometimes. It's just about what helps us cope."

"Yeah," Steve murmurs. Her eyes soften, and he cracks a grin. "And also, you're secretly a sap."

Natasha kicks him in the shin with a little more force than necessary and climbs back to her side of the bed. "Shut up."

Steve laughs, and as he watches her slide back underneath the covers, a slight curiosity worms its way into his brain.

"How come you never have nightmares?"

She gives a short, brittle laugh. "Trust me, I do."

"Wake me up for your next one, then."

Her gaze lingers on him briefly before she answers. "Okay."

She gives him one last half-smile before turning back on her side and closing her eyes, and he knows instinctually that she never will.

A few days later, news of a minor disturbance at a local shop reaches the safe house, courtesy of the radio Natasha has going in the corner of the living room.

"I'll check it out," Steve says, tossing his UNO cards into the center pile and standing up. "I could use the distraction."

"I find it offensive that you think UNO an insufficient distraction," says Sam.

A short pillow fight and a promise to be back for dinner later, Steve is strolling down a busy street with his hands tucked in his pockets. He comes to a stop at the scene of the crime – a small jewelry store that has clearly been the victim of a robbery. The police, apparently, have not arrived yet; as Steve steps gingerly over the broken glass in the doorway, he notices that the woman standing in the corner is the only other person there.

"Are you okay?" He asks, and the woman spins around, a terrified look on her face. Her eyes widen when she sees him.

"I'm here to help you," he says when he receives no response. "Do you speak English?"

A muscle works in her jaw, and for a moment, the fear in her eyes gives him pause. She looks too scared, too shaken, for a victim of a routine robbery. Something else has happened here, something –

"Did someone hurt you?"

She swallows, then gives a single, tight nod.

"Who?"

The woman shakes her head, then takes a single step back. Steve has just opened his mouth to ask another question when he sees her gaze float just above his shoulder.

He spins around, but he's too slow – the barrel of a tranquilizer gun is all he sees before his vision starts to blur.

"_Fuck_," he mutters, and then everything goes black.

When he wakes, Steve finds himself strapped to a metal chair, which is unsurprising. What _is_ surprising is the face staring directly into his.

"Jesus," he says, jumping slightly. He flexes his wrists, which are apparently cuffed with some super-soldier grade material. "Do you always watch people this closely when they sleep?"

Katerina rolls her eyes and turns, giving Steve an uninhibited view of the gun in her holster. "He's awake."

When no one appears immediately in front of him, Steve takes what he knows will be a brief respite to examine his surroundings. The chair is the only piece of furniture in the room, and the walls are painted a completely unassuming grey. He wonders vaguely if this is an abandoned warehouse of some sort, though it looks far too nice to be one.

His thoughts are cut short by the slamming of a door somewhere behind him, and he resists the urge to crane his neck and look at the person whose footsteps are currently getting louder and louder.

"Captain Rogers," a voice sneers near his ear, and despite everything he flinches in his chair. "How nice to finally meet you."

"If I had a dollar every time someone greeted me like that, I wouldn't be here right now," Steve mutters.

His captor does not laugh, but instead strolls into his range of vision and comes to a stop in front of him. "Do you know who I am, Captain?"

Steve squints into the emaciated face in front of him and decides to answer honestly. "Nope."

"My name is Vindiktor."

"That seems unlikely."

"Shut up!" Vindiktor roars, backhanding Steve across the face.

"Okay, Victor," Steve grunts. "I deserved that."

"Enough small talk," Vindiktor snarls, looking murderous enough that Steve restrains himself from making another sarcastic quip. "Where is she?"

"Sorry," Steve says innocently. "Who?"

The man in front of him narrows his eyes menacingly, and Steve starts to feel a little apprehensive.

"You know who."

"Oh, Voldemort? I think he died a few years ago."

That earns him a punch in the face, and as Steve lets out a hiss of breath he decides that he's spent too much time with Tony Stark.

"Your redheaded companion," Vindiktor growls. "Where is she staying?"

Steve inhales, trying to surreptitiously look around and find a way out of this. "She's blonde now. And also, why would I tell you that?"

"Because I work for some very scary people who could hurt you very badly." He chuckles, then beckons Katerina over. Steve searches her face desperately as she walks toward them, but she remains completely expressionless as she places a metal box at Vindiktor's feet and then retreats.

Vindiktor sneers at Steve, then opens the box to reveal a cluster of wires. "Oh, and also – I am a very scary person who could hurt you very badly."

Steve glances at Katerina, who is staring at her feet. "I'm not afraid of pain."

"And I'm not afraid of international interrogation laws." Vindiktor leans threateningly close to Steve's face, and Steve wrinkles his nose at the smell of his breath. "So I'm going to ask you one more time – _where_ is Natasha Romanoff?"

"I'm not going to tell you that," Steve says calmly.

Vindiktor snarls, then slams a boot into his chest. "Your loyalty is admirable," he says with a dangerous scowl. "But you know not who you protect. She is not the person you think she is, Mr. Rogers."

"I'm pretty sure she is," Steve gasps, trying to tell if any of his ribs are broken. "I have a pretty good idea of the sick things you lot made her do."

"And yet here you are, still at her side. Following her around, like a lovesick puppy. She is incapable of human emotion, Rogers. You will always be begging, hoping, waiting for something she cannot give you."

Vindiktor bends to pick a wire out of the box, running his fingers along the rubberized exterior. "We made sure of that when she was here."

"Yeah, and you fucked her up good," Steve snarls. "But through years and years of growing, she's changed. She's become a better person, a more _human_ person."

A cruel laugh precedes a devastating punch to the jaw, and Steve winces as the metallic taste of blood enters his mouth.

His assailant fixes him with a vindictive smile, and in the tone of someone disclosing devastating information, says: "She once courted your best friend, you know. They wanted to run away together. They tried to, until we caught them and beat it out of them. But she knew who he was, she learned. And when she met you, she acted like she had no connection to you."

"She told me," he spits. "She told me everything. She is not the monster you forced her to be anymore."

Mild surprise flashes briefly across Vindiktor's face, but it is quickly reigned in. "Well, then." He smirks and folds his arms across his chest. "Time for plan B."

…

Steve doesn't make it back for dinner.

They don't worry about it until the kitchen's been cleaned and the leftovers are put in the fridge. Natasha has just placed the last plate into the dish rack when Sam turns to her with a frown.

"Shouldn't Steve be back by now?"

"Yeah, he should," she says slowly, mentally calculating the amount of time he's been gone. "It's not like him to miss a planned engagement. You military men are all so punctual."

Sam gives a short laugh as he dries his hands on a dish towel. "It's probably nothing, right? He's Captain America."

"I mean, he's not anymore, but yeah. Probably nothing." She pauses, and neither of them moves. "Okay, so if he's not back in an hour – "

"Yep, yeah, sounds good."

An hour passes. The two of them, after a wordless shared glance, get dressed and head out the door.

They arrive at the storefront to see that the building is completely empty, save for the shattered glass that lies scattered across the floor. Natasha, immediately on high alert, steps gingerly over the threshold and beckons at Sam to follow.

She takes the right side of the small, studio apartment-sized store, and Sam takes the other, both of them examining every nook and cranny to be seen.

"Nat," Sam says quietly after a few minutes. "C'mere."

He points to a spot near his feet. Natasha's gaze follows his finger to a small trail of blood, lining the edge of the floor.

"It looks fresh," he says.

Together, their eyes follow the trail, tracking it to a small window on the backside of the store.

"It's a trap," Natasha decides.

"Yeah."

Natasha sighs. "Okay, let's go."

For time's sake, they opt to climb out of the window instead of going around, and as they follow the trail of blood into a dark, cobblestone-lined alleyway, Natasha's hand floats unwittingly to the gun concealed inside her jacket.

The stroll down the alley seems impossibly long, but the blood eventually tapers off, as evidenced by Sam throwing out a hand to stop her.

"There's nothing here," he mutters.

A sense of foreboding starts to creep at the edges of Natasha's mind. "There is," she says grimly. "Stand back."

Sam shuffles backwards, and Natasha examines the wall, crouching to get a better look at the bricks. It takes her a few seconds to find what she's looking for – a faint smear of red, almost invisible against the dark grey of the stone.

She counts – two up, eight over – and drives a fist into her target.

Sam lets out a shocked yelp. When she withdraws her hand and waves it in his face to show no damage, the expression on his face almost makes her laugh.

"Look," she says, cracking a smile. The stone falls away, crumbling into the darkness, and soon the rest of the wall follows.

"How – how did you – "

"The Red Room has emergency bunkers pretty much everywhere," Natasha says, the smile falling off her face. "But they change the codes every few days. Which means – "

"This is definitely a trap," Sam finishes.

"Yep." Natasha takes a deep breath, then stares into the passageway that has appeared in front of them. "Shall we?"

They draw their guns and step into the passageway, which immediately tumbles shut behind them. This is not a surprise, but its foreseeability does nothing to quell the apprehension rising in her gut.

The passageway opens into a large room that looks kind of like the reception area of an office, except everything is deserted and nothing feels welcoming. There are two doors on the opposite wall, and Natasha and Sam share a glance before walking towards them.

Sam taps the comms link in his ear. "I got left. Call if you need."

"Yeah," Natasha says, placing one hand on the right doorknob. "You too."

Both doors open with no resistance, and Natasha steps through.

She emerges in an empty gym, one that she would think had been abandoned long ago were it not for the slight sway of a punching bag in the corner, a betrayal of a presence recently departed.

"I'm here," she calls, her voice too loud in the weight of the room. "What do you want?"

There is a brief moment of silence, one that is not unlike the one between a bolt of lightning and its sound.

Then, a soft, maniacal laugh starts echoing off the walls, and a door materializes on the far wall.

"What I want, Miss Romanoff," the newcomer says with a voice full of silk, stepping into the room, "Should be clear."

"Vindiktor," Natasha growls, taking a step forward. "I am going to cut your head off."

"Now, now," Vindiktor croons. "Is that any way to greet an old friend? I used to consider you a sister, you know."

"Where's Steve?"

Vindiktor flashes her a vicious smile and beckons at the door. Katerina strolls through it, dragging a metal chair behind her.

Tied to the metal chair, of course, is Steve. His face looks like it's taken a beating, and a myriad of wires are attached to various parts of his body by what Natasha knows from experience to be electrodes.

"Natasha," he gasps, as soon as he sees her. "They snuck up on me, I didn't know – "

"Shut up," Katerina says lazily, shoving a gun into the side of his head. Steve falls silent, which sends a jolt of anger through Natasha's body.

"What did you do to him?"

"Oh, not much, yet," Vindiktor scoffs. "But the night is still young."

He eyes the gun in her hand, as if he has just noticed it is there. "Put that down," he says idly. "Or Katerina here will put a bullet in your friend's head."

Natasha doesn't move. "You and I both know that you'd still tell her to shoot."

Vindiktor laughs, a chilling sound that sends a thrill down Natasha's spine, then turns to Katerina. "Always the skeptic, this one. How's this – both of you get rid of your guns. I promise I just want to talk."

Katerina shrugs, then bends and places the gun back in her holster. Natasha glares at them both, then does the same.

"There," Vindiktor says mildly. "Was that so hard? Now, back to our friend, here – "

"Whatever you want, he can't give you," Natasha says, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. "But I can – I know how your program operates, I know what you need – let him go – "

"Touching," Vindiktor sneers. "But you're wrong. You see, you and I both know that your tolerance for pain, combined with your stubborn personality, would make you a terribly irritating captive. The same can be said for Rogers, here. However…"

He reaches a hand into his pocket and pulls out a small remote. "I have a theory, you see. We could interrogate you, torture you, for as long as we possibly could, and you would still never talk. You have spent your entire life making sure of that."

"What you have not built a safeguard for," he continues, "is the side effects of being part of a team. Of caring for other people." He caresses the remote and presses a button. Steve jerks in his chair, a small grunt of pain escaping from his mouth.

Natasha clenches her teeth, grinding her heel into her ground, and a faint smile flickers onto Vindiktor's face. "It is as I thought," he says softly. "Love has made you weak."

Suddenly, a loud banging causes both of them to turn towards the door Natasha entered from. "Nat!" Sam yells, his voice muffled by the metal. "The doors locked, there's nothing on my side – is everything okay in there?"

"Tell me, Natalia, do you know why our doors are made of metal?"

"Impossible to kick down," she mutters.

"Exactly." Vindiktor smiles wickedly as the banging stops. "So let's proceed. I believe you have two of our girls, and we would very much like to get them back."

"I don't have them."

"But you know who does."

"Even if I did," Natasha says, her voice a low growl, "I wouldn't know where they're being held."

"Oh, but I don't think that's true," Vindiktor says smoothly. "You know your old operations very well. Even if you don't know _exactly_ where they are, I'm sure you could find out."

"But you clearly can't," Natasha says evenly. "So why exactly would I tell you?"

"Because if you don't," Vindiktor answers, his voice getting more and more dangerous, "You and your friend outside will never see Rogers again."

"And if I do?"

Her opponent smiles again, spinning the remote in his hand. "We let him go. Full stop, no conditions."

"And why," Natasha asks, "would I believe you?"

Vindiktor shakes his head, almost as if in disappointment. "He is only as valuable to us as what we can get out of you. His life, and his death, are of no use to us now. Once a hero, now a war criminal, he would be as meaningless to us as an ordinary citizen, were it not for his relationship with you. I am not unreasonable, Natalia. Especially not to one who was once my close friend. From one Red Room graduate to another – get our girls back, and he's yours."

"Except it's not just the girls. If I told you where they are, you'd find an entire operation."

"What do you care?" Vindiktor snaps. "That operation threw you to the curb as soon as you dared to defy their orders. You think they're any better than us? They used you and then abandoned you – how is that any different than what we do here?"

"I believed in the work they were doing," Natasha says tightly, ignoring the banging on the door that has suddenly returned. "I actually wanted to do it."

"Then you are a fool," Vindiktor snarls. "And your _friend_ is going to suffer because of it."

He slams his finger into the remote, and Steve jerks in his chair. Natasha dives for her gun, but stops short when she sees Katerina mirror her movements across the room.

"Relax, lady," Katerina warns, resting the barrel of her gun almost gently against Steve's head.

"Yes, relax," Vindiktor advises. "We trained you; you know that as soon as you fire one bullet, another will enter Rogers' skull. And you know Katerina would take your bullet to do her job. You once would have done the same."

Natasha glares at him, then edges backwards, keeping her gun trained on Katerina. She throws the door open and Sam bursts through, eliciting an exasperated groan from Vindiktor.

Sam surveys the room, his eyes wide. "What the _fuck_ – "

"Clever," says Vindiktor, with a voice full of mockery. "Now you have two guns, which you _still_ can't fire at risk of killing your friend."

Sam cocks his gun. "I just met you and I already hate you."

Vindiktor rolls his eyes. "If you were a stronger person you'd do it anyway," he says, addressing Natasha. "You'd kill us both, Steve Rogers be damned. But you've gone soft."

"You're wrong," Natasha says, a barely controlled shake in her voice. "I was weak when I was with you."

Vindiktor shrugs. "Suit yourself."

Natasha inhales, trying to brace herself for what is coming while also trying to think of a way out. She locks eyes with Steve, begging for something – what, she doesn't know – and he shakes his head.

_Don't_, he mouths. _Don't break._

The next surge of electricity hits, and Vindiktor must have seen their little exchange because the voltage hits and Steve screams. And Natasha thinks Vindiktor must be right, she _has_ gone soft, for there is no other explanation for the way the sound makes every muscle in her body clench as if it is being taken over by rigor mortis. Sam grabs her arm, but she doesn't feel it at all – the only things she can feel are her blood curdling in her veins and the bile rising in her throat.

Her reaction, apparently, is visible, because Steve takes the brief respite between shocks to force his mouth shut. He clenches his jaw to prevent himself from screaming, as if she will not fold if she cannot hear proof of his pain. She tries to tear her eyes away from his writhing body but finds herself unable to, and when a soft moan escapes his lips she thinks that it's a million times worse than his screams. "Stop," she hears herself whisper, and then the panic coursing through her body builds even more quickly, building and building until it erupts in a scream of her own. "STOP!"

Everything freezes at once. The remnants of her shout echo off the walls. Everyone stares at her – Vindiktor, with a malicious, victorious grin on his face; Sam, his eyes wide and terrified; Katerina, her face completely blank; and Steve, a faint look of horror underneath the haziness of pain.

"Okay," Natasha whispers shakily, closing her eyes. "Okay."

She lets the silence hover for a moment, lets herself linger in the last scrap of the life she'd convinced herself to be virtuous.

She opens her eyes, steeling herself, then takes a deep breath, but before she can say anything else a gunshot cracks through the air.

Her mouth falls open as Vindiktor falls to the floor, blood spurting from the newly-formed hole in his chest. Beside her, Sam looks equally stunned, and the two of them turn in unison to see Katerina slide her gun back into her holster.

No one moves as Katerina turns toward Natasha. "You were telling the truth," she says quietly. "You were one of us."

"Yes," Natasha says carefully. "I was."

"And those people – they helped you. They're helping my classmates. He told me about it."

"Yes."

"I want – " Katerina pauses. "I've been considering your original offer."

"Well," Natasha says, forcing an ounce of cheerfulness into her voice, "We can definitely do something about that."

Exactly five hours later, she is standing in a clearing with Katerina and Sam by her side.

"I'm glad you texted," Hill calls, walking toward them. "I was getting worried you'd turn us down." She gives them all a friendly smile, then shakes Katerina's hand. "Where's Steve?"

"Asleep," Sam answers. "He's had a long day. Had some mild torture."

"Oh, my God," says Hill, looking mildly horrified. "If you need medical supplies – "

"We have some," Natasha cuts in, forcing a smile. "But we'll let you know if we run out."

Hill gives her a knowing look. "I'm glad we're working together again, Nat. Really."

Katerina steps to Hill's side, and Natasha shrugs. "I'm doing what's best for the girls."

"I know."

Natasha turns to Katerina, who for the first time has allowed some uncertainty to enter her eyes. "You'll be taken care of," Natasha says gently. "It'll be hard, but it'll be worth it."

The girl gives a short, determined nod. "Thank you."

Natasha gives her a small smile, then straightens up. "Thanks, Hill. I'll be in touch."

"Of course." She lays a fond hand on Natasha's shoulder. "I know it's not easy for you to ask for help – "

"Okay, this is not a therapy session."

Maria laughs, and Natasha allows herself to grin. The air around them lightens up a bit.

Sam cracks a relieved smile. "Well, we'll see you around, Maria."

"Yeah, we should go," Natasha says, extending her hand for a final handshake. "Gotta take over the post – Steve's gonna wake up soon, and he gets cranky when he doesn't get his morning walk."

They part ways chuckling, and as Natasha and Sam turn onto the road he shoves her gently with his shoulder. "Quite a night, huh?"

"Uh-huh," she mutters. "I need to go to bed."

Sam laughs, and she smiles, tucking her hands into the pockets of her jacket. Their steps grow quieter as they approach the safe house, signs of two steadily tiring people, and as they let themselves in Natasha notices the sun begin to appear over the horizon.

"Huh," she says, mostly to herself. "Haven't seen a sunrise in a while."

"Silver linings," says a voice behind her. She turns to see Steve leaning against the bedroom doorway, still clad in pajamas and yawning widely.

A soft smile floats onto her lips. "Yeah," she says before pushing past him, grabbing a pair of sweatpants on the way to the bed. "Silver linings."


	7. all the king's horses all the king's men

As the month wears on, the trees around the safe house transform gradually, the green fading slowly from their leaves to make way for warm oranges and yellows. The forest is largely quiet, save for a few birds and the occasional plane or helicopter flying overhead.

In recent weeks, the helicopters have become somewhat more frequent, a fact Natasha does not like to think about.

Instead, she decides to turn her attention to her housemates.

While she is probably the one who has historically been deprived of basic needs the most, all three of them are very familiar with hardship and strife. They've all experienced nights where food and sleep are equally impossible to come by, and they've all slept in beds made of nothing but the solid dirt underneath them. All of them are familiar with what it's like to care only for survival.

But it's been a while, and recent years have seen them grown largely accustomed to having general comforts. The safe house is a step down from a state-of-the-art training facility, maybe, but a roof over their heads and a functioning kitchen save them from the worst of living on the run.

Her companions bear up reasonably well when grocery trips are interrupted by the presence of police officers, leading to multiple straight meals of canned beans and scavenged stale biscuits. Neither Steve nor Sam utters a single complaint about overly-cautious travel routes that she makes them take, routes that meander through trees and behind abandoned, dilapidated buildings and sometimes make ten-minute commutes take the better part of an hour.

Generally speaking, they're all doing well—which makes it a little strange that Sam has grown more and more reclusive as the weather cools and the leaves start changing.

He's been quiet, more so than usual, and dinner conversations often lapse into silences that are punctuated only by Natasha and Steve sharing glances that say _"I have no idea, dude."_

"You're better friends with him," she tells Steve one day. "You talk to him."

"I'm not good at this stuff," says Steve.

"And I am?!"

Three rounds of rock-paper-scissors later, Natasha sits in front of Sam at the kitchen table, Steve conveniently out of the house for a run.

She might not be "good at this stuff," but she's good at extracting information, and even though Sam gives her a look that says "_I know what you're doing_" more than once he starts talking ten minutes in anyway.

"I want it on the record that I'm only doing this because I know it's what's healthy for me," he says. "Not because you wheedled it out of me."

Natasha gives a slight laugh. "Duly noted."

Sam sighs, then folds his hands on the table in front of him. "I'm just—I think it just hit me that this is gonna be what the rest of my life is like."

There is a beat of silence before he resumes speaking. "Before—out there, during the war—it was hard, but I knew I'd either go home or be dead, eventually. Either way, it'd be over. But this—the running, the hiding, the constant fear—it just seems endless, you know? And I knew that it would be, I knew what I was signing up for, but I don't think I really _knew_."

"Sam," Natasha says softly, "if you regret coming with us—"

"No, no, that's not it," Sam says, waving his hand in the air. "Staying at home, wondering whether you guys were alive, trapped in my house while I knew I could be doing more—I'd have hated that. It's just something I've been grappling with, I guess."

Natasha rests her chin on the palm of her hand, chewing her lip thoughtfully. "Even if I could tell you—"

"Say this does last forever," Sam blurts out suddenly. "You guys are, like, enhanced. I'm gonna age, I'm gonna get too old to physically keep up—"

Natasha actually laughs at that, and Sam looks equally surprised and affronted. "Jesus Christ, Wilson," she says, shaking her head. "We're not going to _abandon you._ And we have so much time before we get to that point—"

"But say we do—"

"Given the way we do things, we'll probably all be dead long before then," Natasha says dryly. "We can cross that bridge if we get there."

"Well, thanks," Sam says sarcastically. "I can see why Steve sent you to make me feel better."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Steve's too optimistic for this kind of stuff. You need my scathing cynicism."

Sam looks deeply unconvinced, and Natasha sighs.

"Look," she says, more seriously. "I know what you mean. My entire life has been that feeling. I never thought I'd get out of the Red Room—I'd thought I'd be in that hellhole forever. And I was in there for a long, long time, but I got out. Eventually. And then I got to SHIELD, and I thought, okay, maybe I'll be here for a while. And then I helped engineer its downfall, and went on the run again—only this time I was brought back in because Fury wanted me. And then the Avengers broke up—"

"Okay, I get it," says Sam, mild exasperation lining his voice.

An amused smile twists at the corner of Natasha's lips. "Somewhere along the line, I learned to stop thinking so hard about the future and just focus on the present. If it was good, I tried to extend it, and to enjoy it. If it was bad, I kept my eye out for an opportunity to change it. Because nothing—good, bad, or otherwise—lasts forever. Not even this."

Sam hesitates, his fingers working at the edge of the table. "You really think we'll get out of this?" He asks. "How?"

"God, I don't know." Natasha lets out a slight chuckle. "The world is unpredictable, Sam. I mean, a year ago, who would've thought we'd end up here? Things can change, and they can change pretty fast."

"I guess."

"All I'm saying is, I wouldn't worry about it too much. There's no point in worrying about the future—not now, anyway. If we're still here by the time you turn sixty, we can have this conversation again. And, hey—at least we have a house, right?"

Sam laughs, then shakes his head. "I thought Steve was the optimist of the group."

"Oh, this isn't optimism," Natasha says, grinning. "This is pessimism so strong it's turned into something that vaguely resembles optimism."

"I don't know that there's a difference."

Natasha has barely opened her mouth to retort when Steve bustles into the house, their burner phone in his hand.

"Hill called," he gasps, kicking the door shut behind him. "There's an event tonight."

"She didn't tell me anything else," Steve says, after a slight pause that apparently completely resets his lungs. "We're supposed to meet her in an hour."

The event, it turns out, is a black-tie gala for a myriad of foreign ambassadors—including, according to Maria, one with a flash drive full of information.

"Okay," Sam says slowly. "Let me get this straight. One of these ambassadors, whose job is partially to maintain international peace, is getting a bunch of files on professional Russian assassins."

"It's not actually that shocking," Natasha murmurs, examining the invitation one of Maria's informants had intercepted. "We used to do a _lot_ of stuff for foreign governments. Taking out dissidents, anyone who got a little too interested in immigrating to the States, you know."

She turns the invitation over in her hands, running a finger over the smooth and probably-expensive paper. "It certainly seems like the kind of event they'd organize a drop at, anyway. Filled with important people who're too obsessed with themselves to notice anything out of the ordinary, in a huge venue with no shortage of rooms and hallways to sneak into—aside from an actual secret location, this is probably the best place to do it."

"There's only one problem," Maria says, handing over an absolute mountain of garment bags. "Invitation's only for two."

"We'll figure it out," Natasha says, glancing at Sam. "Thanks."

"You don't have to go," Natasha mutters later as Sam falls into step beside her, the three of them making the trek back to the safe house. "If, you know, you need a moment. To think."

"I might take you up on that," he says quietly. "Might be good to have some alone time."

Natasha bumps him with a friendly shoulder and jogs to catch up with Steve, who is walking a few feet in front of them.

"Hey," she says, slapping him in the back with the plastic bag containing a pair of heels and a wig. "You and me tonight?"

"Sure." He gives her a small smile. "Is Sam okay with that?"

"Yeah, I talked to him. He's good to take a night off. I think he's kind of sick of us, to be honest."

Steve laughs, Sam shoots her a grateful glance, and Natasha feels a bit of excitement start to swell in her chest.

In the hours before the gala, Steve starts to feel a little strange.

He hasn't worn a suit in ages, for one thing, and his shoulders feel a little tight as Sam slips a tuxedo jacket over them, as if they've grown unaccustomed to carrying such expensive fabric.

"You look a little tense," Sam notes, passing him a tie.

"Just a little nervous," Steve says evenly. "Haven't been to a fancy party in a long time."

Sam gives him a reassuring smile, watching him loop the tie around his neck. "You'll do fine. And if you don't, Natasha will kill you."

Steve laughs as he straightens his jacket, checking his reflection in the mirror. "Sometimes I think she gets too much enjoyment out of these undercover things."

"Yeah," Sam says slowly. "About that—"

"Talking about me?"

Steve turns to see Natasha's head, peeking into the doorway. He opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it abruptly as he takes in her appearance.

She hasn't gone all-out on a look in ages, either, and nothing prepares him for the way his body reacts when he sees her step out from behind the door.

"Damn," Sam says with a low whistle. "You look incredible."

Steve shoots a silent thank-you to the universe for letting Sam say it, because his tongue seems to have shriveled up from the lack of moisture in his mouth.

"Thanks," Natasha replies, smiling serenely. She tosses a few strands of her long, blonde wig over her shoulder and shudders. "I haven't had long hair in so long. It feels so foreign."

It does feel a little foreign, Steve thinks, but only because he's used to curls that are red instead of platinum, and also because the black, silk gown she's wearing seems to be literally glowing, and he's pretty sure his suit isn't emitting any light.

Natasha glances at him, a curious expression flitting over her face.

Then again, maybe it's not the dress at all.

"Rogers, why are you looking at me like I'm going to kill you?"

"I'm not—" Steve coughs, wrenching his gaze to the floor. "Sorry."

"Hey, Steve," Sam says, his voice irritatingly smug. "Your tie is crooked."

He can almost see Natasha's eyes roll as she makes her way across the room, and he dares not look up as she stops in front of him to straighten his tie. The faint scent of expensive perfume meets his nose. He stares determinedly at her knee.

"All right, James Bond. Let's get going."

Sam ushers them out the door with extravagant hand gestures and profuse requests to "have fun at prom!", and traces of their laughter linger around them even as they climb the stairs to the ballroom.

"So, I think we have to wait for the drop to happen," Natasha says quietly, flashing a smile at the guard who glances at their invitation and waves them through. "Take it off the ambassador. That way all parties involved think it's successful, and we stave off alarm for as long as possible."

"Won't the ambassador just report it missing?"

"Not if he wants to stay alive," Natasha says grimly.

Steve lets that sink in for a while, then decides not to ask. "Want a drink?"

"Yes, but not yet." Natasha steers Steve to the side of the room, a firm but gentle hand on his back. "There's a photographer by the bar."

Their drink scarcity is solved by an enthusiastic young waiter carrying a tray of martinis around the room who deposits two at their table with a winning smile. Steve takes slow sips of his and lets his companion do most of the talking, watching with a slightly detached admiration as she chats up everyone who stops by and introduces themselves.

"Oh, you _must_ stop by the Holyrood Distillery next time you're in Edinburgh," she tells one couple excitedly. "I went while I was on holiday a few years ago—I've never had better gin."

A lilting smile makes its way onto Steve's face as they leave their table for the bar with profuse thanks and cheerful waves. "That is quite an English accent you've got there."

Natasha gives him a good-natured glare. "I have to overcompensate for my deadbeat partner, who would benefit from an acting class once in a while."

He laughs, tilting his glass towards her. "Conceded and noted."

They take advantage of the lull in visitors to observe their surroundings. Steve's eyes rake over the room, taking in the ornate detailing along the walls and the expensive-looking chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

"They're not letting people upstairs," Natasha notices. Steve follows her gaze to the base of the staircase, where an imposing man is standing and shaking his head at anyone who dares to approach him.

"How do we get past him?"

Natasha meets his eyes, her mouth twisting into a sly smile. "Care to dance?"

She whisks his drink out of his hand before he has a chance to protest, spinning him onto the dance floor with the speed and precision of a trained ballroom dancer.

They land in the center of the floor—which, Steve realizes, provides them both with a clear view of the entire staircase and part of the hallway above it. The photographer passes, his camera clicking away, and Natasha launches herself into a twirl. The flash catches the back of her head and not much else, and as the photographer moves on Natasha floats back into Steve's arms.

"You're so tense," she teases, her hand gentle on his shoulder. "Something on your mind?"

"I just don't know what your plan is," he hisses. "Do we just stay here until something happens?"

"Relax," she purrs, rotating them so that Steve's back is facing the staircase. "Enjoy yourself. This might be the last fancy party we ever go to."

The music fades into something slower, something softer, he knows that she's right. So he takes a deep breath and lets some of the tension seep out of his body, swaying leisurely to the sounds of the grand piano on the stage (because of _course_ there's a live band). Natasha gives him a small smile, as if to say _there you go_, and rests her head on his shoulder.

Steve tries to focus on the details, like the shrimp about to fall out of a cocktail glass on a distant table, or one of the waiters' untucked shirt—anything but the warmth originating from his shoulder, currently radiating down his spine, or the fingers interlaced through his. Despite his best efforts, though, the details fade away too, and it's like he's fallen asleep while still wide awake, like everything including time itself has disappeared and he's swaying in a room full of everything and nothing at all, and the person in his arms is—

"He's here," Natasha hisses suddenly, making Steve jump. "But don't turn around."

"Why not?"

"Because we both don't need to look at him," she whispers. "And it might draw suspicion if you start staring."

There is a brief pause. Steve wonders if Natasha can feel his heart racing through his shirt.

"One of them has gone upstairs," she murmurs, using a firm hand to keep him swaying to the beat. "We're just waiting for the other one."

They stay in that position, and everything is just as regal and awe-inspiring as it was, but Steve is now hyperaware of the people and sounds surrounding him.

"Our target is on the stairs."

Steve swallows.

Natasha speaks into his ear in a low, fast voice. "After the guy from the Red Room comes back down, I'm gonna distract the guard. You sneak up the stairs when you see an opening, hide yourself when you get up there, and wait for me."

"Copy."

"Okay," Natasha whispers a moment later. "It's go-time."

She detaches herself from him and glides away into the crowd, leaving Steve to stumble around the perimeter of the room with multiple "excuse me's" and a near-collision with a waiter. By the time he gets near the staircase, Natasha is already chatting with the guard.

Her face is full of sweet, naïve innocence, and he hears a flirty, just-over-the-top-enough laugh that coaxes the smallest smile out of the guard's otherwise stone-cold expression.

She gives an extravagant gesture with one hand, apparently in the middle of what Steve is sure is a wild and engaging story, then places the other hand on the guard's wrist, turning him towards the other side of the room. Steve takes that as his signal and takes off.

"Thank you, doll," he hears Natasha say as he steps onto the second floor. "The world is lucky to have you."

Natasha finds Steve behind a curtain, and she pulls a tube of lipstick out of her clutch as they turn into a hallway.

"Fourth door on the right, he told me," she says.

Steve glances at the lipstick in her hand, and she watches his eyes scan the name—_SWEET DREAMS—_before he nods. "You'll take him, I assume?"

She nods as they come to a stop beside the closed door, checking her lipstick quickly before snapping her clutch shut. "Keep watch?"

"Naturally."

She gives him a grateful smile before stepping through the door.

The man at the desk looks up as she walks in, a confused look spreading over his face.

"Mr. Andrade?" She asks sweetly, slipping smoothly back into an English accent. "I was told I could find you here."

"Yes," Andrade says, looking her up and down. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss, um—"

"Oh, I was told that you've recently come into possession of some very important information," Natasha says, sauntering around the desk. "And I would love to see it."

Andrade's gaze flickers to a drawer in the corner of the room, and Natasha suppresses an eyeroll. "I'm afraid I can't allow that."

Natasha hums. "A pity." She slips into Andrade's lap, snaking an arm around his shoulders. "Perhaps I could give you something for your trouble?"

"It's not for sale, unfortunately," he says absentmindedly, his voice suddenly much lower. "But maybe we can discuss—ah—something else."

She has barely started to answer before his mouth is on hers, and she suppresses the revulsion rising in her gut as she leans into the kiss, counting the seconds in her head. His body slumps before she hits three, and she climbs off his lap before leaning him back against the chair.

Natasha makes quick work of the lock on the drawer and slides it open to reveal a single flash drive. She slips it into a small, invisible pocket in the hemline of her dress (Maria really does think of everything) before shutting the drawer and slipping back out the door.

Steve stares at her as she steps back into the hallway. "That was fast."

Natasha cracks a grin and shrugs. "He was pretty overeager." She drags a makeup wipe unceremoniously across her lips, then pauses as a confused expression flits across Steve's face. "What?"

"Why are you getting rid of it?"

Natasha blinks. "It's like the first rule of gun safety—keep your finger off the trigger unless you're ready to shoot, right? Wouldn't want to accidentally put anyone else to sleep tonight."

There is a beat, and then Steve says, "Right."

"Anyway, I got it." Natasha pats the hidden pocket in her dress and tucks her makeup wipe into her clutch. "Let's get out of here."

Two suited men are talking seriously to the guard at the bottom of the staircase, and Natasha stops in her tracks to pull Steve back into the hallway.

"We can't go back down that way," she hisses, gesturing at the stairs. "They're gonna ask questions."

Steve glances in the direction of the staircase, then pales slightly. "They're coming up here."

Natasha suppresses a groan and drags him farther into the hallway, shoving him into an empty bedroom and closing the door behind them. Relief jolts through her as she turns to see a window on the opposite wall.

"We might have to leave this way," she mutters. She walks briskly to the window, then peers out of it. The street below it is mercifully empty, and as Steve arrives next to her, she hears an muffled, but still clearly alarmed, yell.

"They've found him," Steve breathes, his eyes widening. Natasha opens her mouth to reply, then shuts it abruptly as footsteps start pounding down the hallway towards them.

"Check the rooms," a gruff voice says. A door slams outside.

"The window," Steve hisses.

"There's no time," Natasha says desperately, her mind racing. She spins wildly back to face him. "I'm gonna kiss you, okay?"

A frantic look flashes through his eyes. "If you have to, but—"

The rest of his sentence is cut off by the sound of the door opening. She shoves him roughly against the wall and, trying to make the situation feel as unromantic as possible, dives for his face.

It doesn't matter—she can feel her heart pounding against her ribcage, but she can also feel his, and as she pours all of the pining, pain, and want of the last few years into the kiss she hears a mumbled "Oh God—sorry" and a hurried slam of the door behind them.

She forces herself to tear her lips from his, refusing to look at the dazed look in his eyes.

"Come on," she says, her voice hoarse. "We have to go."

She fumbles for her clutch, extracting a small canister with uncharacteristic inelegance. She turns it over a few times in her hands before finding the button, and she has to stop and inhale deeply to refocus on the task at hand. Steve slides the window open, rope shoots from the canister towards the ground, and neither of them speaks as they slide silently through the crisp, cold air of the night.

Nobody sees them as they yank the rope free and race down the street, and Natasha doesn't breathe until the colossal, regal roof of the venue is out of sight.

Steve stays a step behind Natasha the whole way back to the woods, mostly because he doesn't want her to be able to see his face.

His thoughts are running at a thousand miles per hour, and he does not have the space in his brain to conceal them. He does, however, somehow have the ability to think ten different things at once—_why? What did that mean? Did it mean anything at all? Is he reading too much into this? Did she also feel that—_

"Oh, my God," Natasha says, stopping abruptly. Steve, coming back to reality a second too late, almost trips trying to avoid running into her. "It's raining."

A light tapping on the top of his head confirms this to be true. Steve tries not to think about the fact that this is the first thing either of them has said since they left the gala.

"We'd better hurry," Natasha mutters, breaking into a slight jog. "If we ruin our outfits Maria is going to kill us."

Steve obediently picks up his pace to match hers, wincing as his foot lands in a puddle. "I don't even want to know what these shoes are gonna look like by the time we get home."

Natasha's laugh is a little too airy, but she still glances back at him as she clears a particularly thick tree trunk with the grace of a gazelle. "They're a necessary sacrifice for that five-hundred-dollar suit."

Steve forces a laugh and tries to focus on the steadily diminishing distance between them and their destination.

The safe house appears on the horizon a short while later, and his sigh of relief is answered by what feels like a blanket of water, suddenly drenching him from head to toe.

A surprised yelp from Natasha and a quick glance upward inform him that rain has apparently started falling from the sky with truly vindictive force; and, given the fact that he thinks he can feel water seeping into his bones, his suit is probably ruined beyond repair.

Natasha has evidently come to the same conclusion. She turns slowly, an exasperated look on her face that twists slowly into a smile as she takes in Steve's appearance.

"You look—uh—"

"Yeah, I get it," Steve mutters, running a self-conscious hand through his hair. "It's wet."

Natasha laughs, and it sounds genuine this time. She shakes her head as she pulls her wig off, letting it drop into the rapidly thickening mud. "Might as well ruin the whole set, right?"

A smile floats unwittingly onto Steve's face, and he waves his hand at the sky. "I mean, the safe house is _right there_," he says incredulously. "This couldn't have waited thirty seconds?"

"God waits for no one."

"Apparently."

The wry amusement on Natasha's face fades into something softer as she watches him, and something about her expression makes his gut twist.

"What?" He asks, before he can lose his nerve.

"What, what?"

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Natasha hesitates, then takes a step toward him. A raindrop trickles down the side of her face.

"I think," she says slowly, "that I maybe owe you a dance."

She slips her hand into his before he has a chance to react, and his other hand rises almost automatically to her waist. The rain shows no sign of abating, but it doesn't matter anymore—they've accepted the rain, accepted the destruction of the clothing that currently feels like it weighs five pounds heavier.

As they sway slowly, letting the water soak through their too-expensive outfits, Steve finds that he doesn't mind the rain at all. It sounds almost musical, pattering against leaves and tree branches, against the ground—like it's playing a song just for the two of them, something precious and a little lonely, but maybe a little hopeful too.

A helicopter whirrs overhead, breaking the mirage for just a moment, and Steve pulls back slightly. A million words dance on the tip of his tongue, a thousand declarations and confessions and questions, and he doesn't know how or in what order they're going to come out but he knows that if he doesn't say them now, he may never get the courage to again.

Something disconcertingly similar to fear flashes through Natasha's eyes as they travel over his face, but he starts speaking anyway.

"Natasha—"

Her eyes flutter shut ever so briefly before she cuts him off. "No," she whispers, shaking her head. "Don't."

Something sinks in his chest, and he opens his mouth again—to apologize, or insist, or beg, he doesn't know—but he never gets the chance to speak, and it doesn't matter anyway.

Because before the first syllable can escape him, the safe house explodes behind them.


End file.
